


Over the River and Through the Woods

by LMT



Series: Hound & Arya fic [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 36,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revenge-and-murder roadtripping adventures of Arya & the Hound.  They are killing basically every f*cking person in Westeros...</p><p>Warnings inside.</p><p>Done!  Finally, actually done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wine and Wolf

**A/N: Warning for glimpse of nonconsensual sex act with a minor. Not really graphic though.**

**Takes place some time during Sandor & Arya's Epic Travel Adventures. (If that were its own TV show, I would totally watch it.).**

* * *

The girl had vanished again. Most likely she’d gone off to practice her ridiculous version of swordplay, somewhere where he couldn’t see her and set her straight. Ordinarily he would just ignore it, but there had been talk of soldiers passing through, a lot of them, not too long ago. Probably it was not a good idea for the girl to be wandering the woods alone with that ridiculous little toothpick and no sense of self-preservation.

Besides, he had a bad feeling all of a sudden. So he went looking for her.

It didn’t surprise him at all when he followed the sounds of a commotion and discovered the girl on her knees with some stranger’s prick in her mouth. Besides the owner of the prick there was one man crouched behind her holding her still, and another a few paces away, probably waiting his turn.

One had seen him already, so surprise was out. He drew his sword and pitched his voice to carry. “The brat is mine – and I don’t like sharing. Get lost or I'll hack you apart.”

The men must have recognized him, or at least recognized that he was no one to fuck with: they exchanged looks and a couple of frantic hisses, and fled immediately. Leaving the girl on her hands and knees spitting onto the ground.

He waited a bit, but she didn’t stop retching. Damn her. “You all right?” he said at last. For some reason, instead of answering she gave him a look of pure hate – and dashed off into the trees.

_For fuck’s sake._

At least she hadn’t taken off in the direction the soldiers had gone.

* * *

Arya knew from the huffing and growling that the person stomping up behind her was the Hound. Pity – she’d rather have had the soldiers back. At least them she could _kill,_ without feeling strange about it. She definitely wanted to kill _someone._ “Go away,” she said.

“You didn’t get lesson enough this morning not to run off alone?” he snarled, from much too close. “Or did you like it so much you’re hoping for seconds?”

“If anyone comes near me I’ll cut their throat.” Her voice came out nice and steady. She was proud. “Especially you. Go away.”

“Especially me?” He was _laughing._ “What the fuck did _I_ do?”

She had never hated anybody so much in all her _life_. The Hound was nasty and evil – and useless. He'd let them get away. “Why didn’t you kill them?” She tilted her head back to see him, but he was standing right over her so all she got was legs. “I know you could have.”

“Not before they cracked your skull. Now come on – we need to go, before their friends come looking for us.” She felt him shift. “Is that yours?”

“Is what mine?” Something poked her neck and she hissed – it _hurt._ “Oh. Yes.” She wiped at it with her hand, but it was more blood than she’d thought and all she did was make a mess. “The first one had a dagger and he said if I bit him he’d kill me.”

The Hound was chuckling as he knelt down behind her. “I’m surprised you didn’t bite anyway, wolf girl.”

“I _did,_ ” she snapped. “That’s how this happened. He didn’t kill me though, he just-…” she imitated the flailing spastic stabbing motion as best she could, and it made the Hound laugh more.

“Stupid girl,” he said. “You got lucky. Now hold still. I’ll clean it for you – we can’t have it fester.”

She knew he was right, but still. “Stop calling me _stupid girl._ ” She bowed her head so that he could see the wound better. “ _Sansa_ is a stupid girl _._ I'm just stupid. Those cunts didn't even _know_ I'm a girl. They thought I was a boy.”

“Be glad; they'd have stuck it where you don't have teeth,” the Hound growled. Cool as ever, as if he didn't really care either way. “Now this will hurt. Don't scream.”

She nodded and grit her teeth, all ready to not scream, but suddenly the smell of wine made her mouth water. Which made her realize-... “Wait – I need to rinse. Give me that.”

He handed over the wineskin at once, with a sigh. She took a big mouthful and spat it out, and then another, and then changed her mind and started drinking instead.

“Enough,” the Hound said after a bit. “Are you trying to get yourself drunk?” He took the wineskin away.

“I can still taste it,” she protested, and tried to take it back.

“No you can’t.” He turned her around and started to work on her neck again.

“I _can._ I can taste it.” The acid bitterness was fresh in her mind. She gagged again. “I can _still…_ ” Suddenly she was furious _._ “What do you know!” She jumped up, now _her_ turn to tower above, as he knelt there looking like... like he thought the whole thing was funny. And also like he felt sorry for her. Which she hated even more. “You don’t know anything,” she snarled right in his face, and grabbed him by the jaw. “I _said,_ the taste is still there.” Daring him to argue.

The flesh of his cheeks was soft and she dug her fingers in hard, wanting to hurt. The way his breath caught said it was working. _Good._ That was what _they_ had done, squeezed like this to force her jaws apart. She hated them – _and_ him. She squeezed with all her strength, and when she squeezed hard enough, his mouth fell open.

It gave her an idea. She took one more pull of the wineskin, and then leaned over and spat it all into his mouth. “See?” she said – and spat again.

Then she froze.

She’d just _spit_ into the Hound’s mouth. Twice. He was going to kill her.

She let go of his face and took a step back, waiting for it.

Instead of killing her, though… the Hound closed his mouth and swished the wine through his cheeks slowly, twice... and then swallowed it down.

He shook his head. “Just wine,” he said. “Wine and wolf.”

She took a second to try and figure out whether he was making fun, and couldn’t, so she went to slap him just in case. He stopped her, though. Caught her wrist and yanked her so that she fell down against him.

“Should I make sure?” he said, and now he was _definitely_ taunting, but before she could figure out what to do about it he was swooping in, sideways, to shove his tongue into her mouth.

 _What?!_ There was a second of shock where she did _nothing,_ but then she got herself together and tried to fight his tongue with hers. He was too slippery to parry, though, and too strong to eject. She tried for a while but knew she was outmatched, which made the anger flare up all over again, so finally she just bit down – hard.

He laughed into her mouth and then pulled back. “Wine and wolf,” he said again. “And now blood.” He spat pink onto the ground. _Good_! Served him right. “They’re gone, girl. Now shut up and let me see to your neck.”

She did. She was still pretty furious, but at least the taste was gone.

* * *

The End?

These two are a lot of fun to write, so I might do more at some point. Dunno yet. Let me know what you think!

 


	2. Lessons

A/N: they're too much fun. Had to keep going. This takes place a few days after the last one.

* * *

She was _starving._ She tore into the chicken like a beast, and was halfway done with her portion before she even noticed that the Hound had barely touched his – he was too busy staring at her with arched eyebrows.

She swallowed down the enormous chunk of meat in her mouth. “What?” she said. “I'm hungry.”

“I see.” Then he sighed. “I can't believe I'm teaching you this,” he said. “But.”

 _Excellent!_ Arya burped and and moved closer to him. Every thing the Hound taught her was one more way to cross someone off her list. “Go on.”

He finally picked up his own dinner. “When you eat,” he said, “You don't just sink your teeth in somewhere and hope for the best, do you. You shear through with a purpose. You rip and tear.”

She blinked. Was she getting a lesson in _table manners_?

“It's the same in a fight,” he went on. Oh: _now_ she knew what he was getting at. “You take a little flesh between your teeth – not just skin, but _meat_ – and you clamp down tight. And then you bite through, taking as much as you can with you.” He bit into his food and then twisted violently, with his whole body. He ended with practically half a chicken dangling from his jaws, and Arya watched him suck it all in in a few more big bites.

“See? That's the way.” He talked around a full mouth. _He_ needed a lesson in table manners.

“Mm-hm.” She watched him chew. “Do you go on and eat them afterwards?” she said with a straight face. “Your enemies?”

The Hound went still, giving her the strangest look.

“I'm joking,” she said at last. She needed to work on her joking, apparently. If you were unnerving even Sandor Clegane, you were doing it wrong. “Really.”

He looked only a little less wary.

“So... it's like this?” She copied what he had done – and she didn't tear off quite as large a chunk as he had, but it felt all right for a first try.

He nodded. “Good girl. Next time you bite a man you'll do some damage.” He leaned forward. “But. If you ever think of doing something like that to _me_ , I'll bash your little teeth in with a rock.”

No, he wouldn't. She shrugged. “Keep clear of my mouth then, and we won't have any problems.” She clacked her teeth at him – with a saucy little smirk so that he would know she was teasing this time. He snorted and went back to eating.

* * *

The End?


	3. Babysitters Club

A/N: The Hound is a superlatively shitty babysitter.

**WARNING: depressing sex, and underage voyeur.**

 

* * *

After an unusually fruitful robbery, they had the money for a real meal and a real bed.

And also, apparently, a real whore _._ “You can wait downstairs if you like,” the Hound had said, “But if you get yourself into any trouble, I'm going to be much too bloody busy to get you out.”

The greedy eyes of the men in the common room decided her quick enough. “No, I'll stay with you. I don't mind watching people fuck.”

The Hound gave her eyebrows for that, but afterwards paid her no more attention at all.

A girl came. Not very pretty in Arya's view, but then, she knew she didn't really know what to look for. The girl had a plain face and ratty hair, and a ring of what might have been fading bruises on her neck. Maybe just dirt. The Hound sounded more tired than anything when he said “Take your clothes off” – and when the girl did it she looked even more tired than he did.

Her tits were big but sort of saggy. The Hound squeezed at them a little without looking too impressed, felt over her arms and her waist, and then shoved her towards the bed. “Up.” The girl looked sort of wary about being shoved. Arya wanted to tell her _don't worry, he's not angry, that's just how he moves people,_ but in the end she supposed it was none of her business.

When he stepped up to the bed, still clothed, he blocked her view. His hands went busy in front of him and she supposed he was taking his cock out. “Come on,” he said. “Use your mouth.”

Arya did her best not to wince at that, or to remember what it was like to have people stick cocks in your mouth. It looked different, though – he was standing still, and not grabbing at her. Maybe that's what it looked like when the girl didn't fight.

There was movement; the girl was _doing_ something, but from behind there was really nothing to see. Arya thought about moving around to get a better look, but she knew enough about fucking to know that people didn't like to be interrupted. If she spoiled it somehow the Hound would beat her for sure.

It wasn't too long before he sighed. “All right,” he said, “Lie down.”

The girl moved again, and he crawled up to kneel on the bed. Still clothed – even his boots. Arya made a face; even _she,_ wild wolf-girl that she was, knew better than to wear boots in bed.

The girl's pale knees were drawn up on either side of his body now. “You want to make it last?” she asked. Arya had never heard anyone sound less excited in all her life.

“No.  I'll be quick.” He leaned down over her, holding up his weight on one hand, and reached for his cock with the other. “You don't have to look.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said, but turned her face away.

Arya was a little offended on his behalf – how dare some whore (some _ugly_ whore!) complain about his looks when he was _paying_ her to make him happy?

Or whatever he was paying her to do. Basically she just seemed to be lying there, shifting a little as he positioned himself over her and-

They gasped together, and Arya figured that they were officially _fucking_ now. It looked rough and unfriendly, pretty much exactly what she would have expected of the Hound, but the girl seemed to take it in stride. She didn't squirm or fight – really she didn't move at all, except for stroking up his arms and hanging on to his shoulders.

After a while he reached down and slapped her pasty thigh.  (Not hard - it reminded Arya of the way he touched Stranger). “Move,” he growled. “If you want to act like a corpse I'm happy to make you one.”

“Sorry. I'm sorry ser- _Oh!_ ”

 _That_ was a slap.  “If you _ser_ me again I'll make you _really_ sorry.”

“Sorry.” She moved her legs up, and started rocking against him. “Better?”

“Much, yes. That's it.  Like that.” They didn't talk any more. He just went on, speeding up until finally his rhythm faltered, and he shoved hard a few times with a low groan and was finished.

He lay on top of the girl for a bit. She didn't complain, but as soon as he got up she rose, pulled her dress on and left with her money. If she noticed Arya at all, she didn't say anything.

“Bye,” Arya said brightly after the door had closed behind her. “Pleasure meeting you.” _What a waste. We could have eaten twice for that._ She glared at the Hound, but he didn't notice because he was busy taking off his boots (finally!) and flopping down onto the bed.

* * *

His post-fucking bliss was disturbed a little by the wolf girl climbing up into bed beside him...

...and shattered entirely when she shook him hard by the shoulder. “Hey. Hey. Wake up.”

“ _What?_ ” He did his best to sound dangerous instead of sleepy, but the girl wasn't cowed.

“Change places with me,” she ordered, scowling at him. “This side is filthy, and it's _your_ mess. You should have to sleep in it – not me.”

He could hardly believe his ears. She'd woken him up for _that_? “Do you want me to strangle you?” he said.

“Not really.” The brat hopped up, walked around the bed and nudged him. “Just roll over. I know you don't care.”

He didn't, but he was still going to strangle her. Some other time, though. He still felt too good to really muster up any anger. “You women are fucking ridiculous.” He rolled over, hardly noticing whether the bed was wet or not, and started to go back to sleep. “Happy?”

“Delighted.”

Then she settled down in bed and recited her little list. His name was still on it. They were going to have to talk about that some day, or else he was going to have to stop helping her become a better killer. Not today, though. He was just too fucking worn out.

* * *

The End?

 


	4. Rule of Four

**A/N: Arya being awesome.**

* * *

The woods were crawling with Lannister soldiers. Watching out for them and running from them and fighting them took its toll, especially since there wasn't a lot of food or rest to be had.

He had to rely on the girl more, kicking her wounded men to finish off, sending her out alone to forage, really _sleeping_ while she kept watch.

That last had turned out to be the most difficult. “If I wanted to kill you while you're sleeping I could have done it already,” she'd said with her little nose in the air. He'd snorted and told her that til now he'd always slept with one eye opened where she was concerned. “While you were _fucking,_ then,” she'd countered. “I know you weren't paying attention _then._ ” That was a fair point, so he'd made her unsheathe her little sword and hold it against his throat for a while, and when that went all right he was finally able to let himself pass out.

The sleep helped, but nevertheless it was a hard journey. “If we keep doubling back like this we'll _never_ get there,” Arya complained one day when an encampment forced them – once again – to look for an alternate route.

He sighed. “What's the rule?”

“Four is too many,” she recited, grouchy. “Unless they're not wearing any armor and only have pitiful cunty swords like mine.”

“And how many were there this morning?”

“Yes but I could have taken the one with the bandages – he was hurt _already_. And you could have got started on the others, and then I would have come-”

“Could have, would have, should have. Shut up,” he ordered. “You're giving me a headache.”

* * *

Arya hated the Hound's stupid rule about only fighting against decent odds.

...Right up until the day they were caught outnumbered, and almost hacked apart.

She stabbed one man with Needle and then held another off to buy the Hound time. When someone grabbed her she bit him, then leaped on him to bowl him over and try ripping out his throat entirely. A kick in the head stopped her, but she must have got _somewhere_ because when she woke up the taste of blood was so thick in her mouth that she threw up.

The Hound was sitting propped against a tree. “This is why we don't fight fucking packs of people all _fucking_ at once,” he snarled. “Someone fucking cut me from behind. You have to dress it.”

“You're cut there too,” she said, pointing to his arm. “And there.” The side of his head – blood was sheeting down, but she knew that scalp wounds bleed. Might not be too serious. “We'll just bandage it all up and it will be fine.”

“Might be.” He shifted and winced. “Or you might get to cross another name off your list.”

She shook her head. “Not today.”

“Probably not _today_ ,” he agreed. “But I've killed enough people to have a good idea when a man's been fucking killed. Fuck.”

He passed out not long after that, and she couldn't wake him. Good thing that in between teaching her to inflict wounds he'd also taught her how to dress them.

* * *

He lost most of the next few days to fever and nightmare. Later he would remember bits and pieces – the girl slapping him, yelling at him, pouring cold water over his head. “Get _up,_ ” she was shouting. “You _can't_ die – don't you dare. Hello? _Hello?_   Little puppy dog _bitch_ I said get _up_ !” He remembered _trying_ to obey her, just to get the noise to stop. Get up, roll over, drink this.

He remembered tears. The girl cried more than once, probably frustration because the wounds just _wouldn't_ cooperate and neither would he, but he remembered some crying on his own part, too. Sitting with his arms and legs wrapped around a tree, the bark scratching his face and chest, clinging and sobbing _don't_ and wheezing for breath. “You have to calm down,” the girl was saying, “Or you'll faint and everything will be worse. Stop it. Just hang on, and breathe, and don't faint. Now hold still. Here it comes.” The pain and the smell that followed he remembered with perfect clarity. He never did remember _how_ she'd got him to let her sear the wound, and she never volunteered it. He suspected it had been embarrassing for both of them.

Other than those awful fragments, his memory resumed with trying to shield his eyes from blinding sunlight one morning. “You're awake,” the girl said, “And your fever's broken, and you've stopped getting worse. I think you're going to be all right.”

She sounded so bloody proud of herself that if he'd had even a _prayer_ of summoning the energy, he would have tried to hit her. The best he could do was growl “Fuck off.”

She _patted_ him. Like he really was a fucking dog.

* * *

**TBC.**

**I know there's at least one more piece I want to write.**

 


	5. Ugly

“ _Girl!_ ”  The Hound was bellowing for her – again.

She rolled her eyes.  What was the point of taking such care to disguise herself as a boy if he was going to go around shouting _that_?

She stomped down to the riverbank and found him sitting on a rock by the water.  “What?  What do you want?  I’m not your servant.”

“No, you’re my prisoner.”  She wondered what he would do if she kicked him.  “And you’re damn annoying.  I want to swim – it’s been so long since I’ve bathed that it’s beginning to disgust even me.  Help me with my armor.”

Other than moving pieces to change bandages, he hadn’t taken it off – _at all_ – since he’d been hurt.  She supposed she didn’t blame him; it probably scared him to be without it since he was still slow and terribly weak.

She helped him with the fastenings he couldn’t reach – which was most of them, since his left arm was still all but useless and the ugly place she’d burned on the back of his right shoulder cracked open and bled if he moved too much.

When the armor was off he stood – and winced.  “The shirt too,” he growled.

How, exactly?  “You’re too tall.  Kneel down.”

“Climb up.”

She climbed up on the rock.  She helped pull the shirt over his head and down his arms, and made a face.  “You should wash this too.  It really is disgusting.”

“Mm.  How are you at washing?”

 “Horrible.”

He chuckled and sat down.   “Do the boots.”

Enough was enough.   “Why?  Why do I have to do everything?  I _know_ you can bend down by yourself, I’ve seen you.”

He heaved a sigh.  “Bending hurts, girl.   Shut up and do as I told you.”

She did it, and then he got up to unfasten his trousers himself.  She watched, realizing that until now she’d never seen him naked, not even when-  “How come you don’t take your clothes off to fuck?” she wondered aloud.  “Is it because you’re ugly?”

He gave her a _look_.

“What?  You are.  I don’t _mind_ it, but you are.”  He was filthy and hairy and covered in scars.

“I don’t because why would I,” he said, kicking his clothes all into a pile.  “I don’t have the time or the trust to strip down for whores, and I’ve got nothing they want to see anyway.”  He turned and stepped into the water.  “You stay here and keep watch.  If anybody comes on me and surprises me like this, I’ll fucking kill you.”

"Fine - but then I get a turn."

If the cold bothered him it didn’t show.  He waded out a ways and then sank down to the shoulders.

* * *

He really had needed a bath.  He stank of sweat and blood and pus – and fear.  And fire.  The traces of it still clung to him, fouling his mood and waking him with nightmares.  He wondered how hard it was safe to scrub; he wanted the smell all gone but not at the price of reopening the cuts that had been so hard to close in the first place.

He took his time soaking, until eventually his teeth were chattering and it was just too chilly to continue.  He dunked his head once more and waded for shore, dashing water out of his eyes as he went.

The girl was waiting for him when he stepped out of the water.

She was pointing her ridiculous cunty little sword at his chest. 

Seven hells.  He wiped his face again.  “What the bloody blue fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ve got to kill you _sometime._ ”  She said it like it made sense.

She was insane.  “You just spent half a week moving heaven and earth to _stop_ me from dying.”

“That's because I want to kill you myself.”

She couldn't _really_ believe that.  He remembered her holding a cool cloth to his forehead while he dozed in her lap.  Still, there was no point arguing with madness.  He sighed and tried something else.  “Do you really think you can kill me with that?”

“I’ll stab you through the heart.”

“Better hope so.  You know what _I_ think will happen, though?”  It took an immense effort of the will not to bring his hands up to guard himself somehow.  “I think you’ll probably be able to stick me once or twice,” he said, “But then I’ll get hold of you.  I’ll break every bone in those hands and I’ll break your jaw besides.  Then I’ll beat the living shit out of you until you’re even uglier than I am.  How does that sound?”

She swallowed.   Almost convinced, it seemed.

“Come on – put the sword down,” he sighed.  “You don’t want to be alone out here anyway.”

“I’m always alone.”  The point had not moved.  The girl did have steady hands.  “What good are _you,_ anyway?  You’re just going to sell me to my aunt.”

Did she want to _stay_ with him?  He managed not to laugh; all he said was: “You don’t think your aunt would be better company?”  He reached up – carefully – to wring water out of his hair.  “Put the sword down and have your bloody swim.”

She wavered a moment longer, but then threw the sword on the ground.  “I’m going to kill you _someday,_ ” she declared.

He thought about roughing her up a little to teach her a lesson, but from somewhere found the generosity to just let it go.  “You and a thousand other people,” he snorted instead.  “Go have your swim.”

* * *

TBC.


	6. Welcome

It took _forever_ to get to the Eyrie.  It was weeks before the Hound could use his sword properly again, and though Arya insisted _she_ could defend them if she had to, she knew that hiding out was really the more sensible course.

They slept under trees and in ditches, usually freezing because the Hound had come to hate fire more than ever.  At first she told him that was stupid; if anything he should be _happy_ that fire had closed his wound for him.  He’d growled at her _How about I sear a couple of wounds for YOU and then we see what you think?_ and cuffed her pretty hard, so she got the message and shut up.   So, most nights they slept cold.  She took minor revenge by sleeping next to him and stealing most of his blanket.

Sometimes they found money (she no longer thought of it as _stealing_ ) and then took a room somewhere, but only if she snuck into the place first to make sure there was no one dangerous inside.  There were dangerous people in most inns.

It was pretty horrible, but still, she was getting used to it.  She was almost sorry when the Hound felt well enough to press on to their destination.

He was fairly nice to her most of the way, but once they got to the Bloody Gate he held her hard by the arm.  “I want to see Lysa Arryn,” he called up to the guards.  “I have something for her.”

What, were they playing at _prisoners_ again?  She stomped hard on his foot and pulled free.  “I’m not a _thing,_ dog.”

“You’ll be a dead thing if you don’t behave yourself,” he growled under his breath to her.  “We’re almost there.  Just shut up.”

She should have stabbed him while she had the chance.

* * *

Petyr looked down at them and all he could think was that they were In The Wrong Place.  Sansa was the one that Lysa wanted to send away (and he would kill Lysa before he allowed that to happen!) but it was Arya – and her  _dog_ – that did not belong.

The hall was lovely, clean and lofty.  Those two belonged in a small muddy ditch somewhere, killing people at close quarters.

Arya _had_ killed people now – he was sure of it.  Lysa's interrogation had not yet drawn the fact out, but he could see it in her eyes.  She had no art to hide it; she had no art _at all._   There was far too much wildness in her, too much of the North.  He had to look hard to see any Cat at all.

But, nevertheless, she _did_ in fact belong to Cat.  Cat would have wanted her protected.  He had tried to help Ned fucking Stark for Cat – surely this could be no more distasteful than that.

His thoughts were interrupted, suddenly, by a wave of horrified whispers.  Lysa gasped from beside him, stiffened, as though she'd heard something that-...

He replayed the last exchange in his mind.  _Did he touch you?  A puzzled frown from Arya.  Well-, of course._

Before he could step in and clarify things himself, the Hound spoke up.  His guttural growl echoed.  “She's asking did I _fuck_ you, wolf girl.”

Arya looked startled.  “Oh.”  She looked back up to the dais.  “No, he didn't” she said clearly, her voice heavy with disapproval.  _Disapproval?_ “Instead, he used up our food money on _whores._ ”

More whispers – interspersed with titters this time.  But the Hound looked more exasperated than abashed when he growled back to her: “ _Once._   I did that _once_ -”

“No.  Twice.”  Arya's eyes were still on her aunt.  “The second time I think you were just too drunk to remember.”

“Really?”

“ _Enough._ ” Lysa's voice cut through their argument.  “I trust you'll spend more wisely the gift I'm making you for the safe return of my niece.”

“ _Gift_ ,” Arya muttered.  “Why don’t we say _ransom,_ which is what it is.”

“Would you please,” Clegane snarled quietly, “Shut.  Your.  Mouth.”  He looked up to Lysa and named a figure. 

Lysa looked over, questioning, and Petyr shrugged.   “High, but reasonable.  She _is_ family…”

“Indeed.”  Lysa was smiling, but suddenly, Petyr could feel a change in her.  She thrummed with danger.  “You ask for money.”

Clegane was no fool – and neither, it seemed, was Arya.  He looked over both shoulders and adjusted his gauntlets; she, much less subtle, stepped in front of him and put her hand on her sword hilt.  “And?” she challenged.

Lysa spoke over her head.  “And instead I'm considering giving you something much more valuable.”  A gesture, and her guards started opening the infernal Moon Door.  “Your life.”

She meant, of course, to provoke him to violence, so that she would feel justified in having him executed.  But this was as far as Petyr could let the madness go.  “Lysa,” he said, pulling her aside.  “My love, you shouldn't.”

“And why not?”  At least she lowered her voice, so that most of the court wouldn't hear them.  “The man's killed people without number, we can't have him-”

“Yes, he's a killer.  A good one.  Why waste him?”  Also, though he thought it wiser not to say, Lysa needed to be careful – people _already_ thought her a capricious and unstable harpy, and the more people she flew without reason the worse it was going to get. 

“What do you suggest I do – my husband?”

Petyr (didn't shudder.  He) glanced down, noted that Arya had backed up against Clegane solidly and he seemed to be allowing it.  “The girl wouldn’t make a good companion for Robyn.   She’s your blood and we need to keep her safe, but it may be that we decide to… find a more suitable place for her,” he said diplomatically.  “In that case she will need to travel.  She'll need an escort.  I don't imagine you want to send any of the knights of the Vale with her?”

Lysa followed his eyes.  “She _will_ need to travel...”

He laughed softly.  Touched her hair.  “My lady and I understand one another perfectly.”  And she melted into his touch.

The pair down on the floor were tense and waiting.  “Close the Moon Door,” Lysa ordered, more pompous than ever, and finally they relaxed.  “Very well: you will have your silver,” she said.  “And in order to atone for your crimes on my lands, you will volunteer your services here for a time, as shield to my niece.”

Clegane took hardly a minute to think.  “I could use a real bed and an armorer,” he said.  Shrugged.  “Fine: she can't be worse than Joffrey.”

* * *

**TBC?**

**They're both kinda outdoor cats, and I really don't think they're going to do well in Lysa's house.  But it would be funny, at least...**


	7. Career Day

“ _Psst. It’s me._ ”

He wasn’t even half awake, but he recognized the girl’s voice and just rolled over. “Who the fuck else would it be.”

The ground was soft – not ground. Bed. And these were real blankets, and a real pillow. He wasn’t sleeping out in the woods somewhere, he was here in the Eyrie and he had a bedroom and the girl had somehow crept into it. He flipped back over to face her. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

“They put me in a room with Sansa. Move over.” She climbed up beside him. “I hate Sansa, and she hates me. I mean I don’t- I mean, we _tried_ to be nice to each other, but it doesn’t work. She’s such a girl.  Look at this stupid nightgown they made me wear – and she yelled at me when I didn’t like it.”

He heaved a sigh. “Did your sister set your face on fire when you fought with her?”

She quieted down. “No.”

“Then, ask me if I give a fuck.”

She sighed, but didn’t get out of bed. After a bit she added: “Besides, from our room we can hear Aunt Lysa fucking Littlefinger all night. It’s completely disgusting.”

All right… _that_ was a good reason. He chuckled.

“It’s not funny. Even your _snoring_ is better than that. I’m sleeping in here tonight.” Before he could tell her no she added: “I already know how to sneak back. Nobody will see me – I’ll go as soon as it gets light.” A beat. “Please?”

She was lucky she’d caught him too warm and comfortable to give a shit. He snuggled down into the pillow and went back to sleep without throwing her out.

* * *

 Arya made sure she was up and vanished, silent, long _before_ dawn. She was back in her room in time for breakfast and dressed neatly… but of course, even _that_ wasn’t good enough for Sansa. “You have to wear normal clothes, Arya,” Sansa told her. “You’re much too old to run around looking like a _boy._ People already think we’re uncivilized, just because we come from the North.”

“I _like_ being uncivilized. And I look like a boy on purpose,” she insisted. “That’s how come people don’t try and rape me.” Then she remembered: “The Hound said people tried to do it to _you_ once, but he pulled them off. Was he lying?”

Sansa swallowed. She went over to the window and looked out – tall and dignified. She really did look like a lady now. “No, he-… that’s the truth. He saved me.”

“Did he kill them?”

Sansa nodded. “H-Horribly. He-. It was horrible.”

It looked like she was going to cry. Arya wanted to hit her. She was _pathetic_ – and lucky. Everyone liked Sansa better. “Oh, stop,” she sneered. “Nothing happened to you – and they’re all dead now anyways. Stop being a baby.”

Sansa swallowed. “Just get dressed.”

“No – you can’t tell me what to do! I’m not wearing that.”

Lady or not, Sansa still stamped like a child. “Fine! It doesn’t matter, you’d look hideous anyway!”

“I’d rather be hideous than- than _you_!” She stomped off.

She went down to the training yards – still dressed as a _boy_ – looking for better company and found the Hound all by himself in a corner weighting a practice sword. “Are you sure that’s all right?” she asked, doubtful. “Did you see the maester?”

He shrugged. “I’ll train when I want, whatever the fucking maesters say.” When she hovered in his way, still not really convinced, he laughed at her. “Is the lady _worried_ about me? I’ll take it slow.”

“Don’t call me lady,” she said, not at all amused. “I don’t call you _knight_ , do I?”

“Fair enough.” He rose and hefted the sword slowly. “Out of the way.”

She sat back and watched him drill. It looked vastly different from her water dancing, but it was interesting.

“They can’t _make_ me be a lady,” she said after a while. “I won’t do it.”

“Good luck with that,” he grunted in between swings.

“I mean it. I’d be horrible.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll do something else – I was going to go to the Wall.”

“The Wall? To freeze your balls off?” He snorted. “Speaking of which, they don’t take girls.”

She knew that. And she knew she couldn’t disguise herself forever. Still, there had to be _something._ “I know there are some girl swordsmen.”

“Aye.”

“Do you know any?” It had never occurred to her to ask.

“A few. All strange – and fucking ugly.”

She snorted. “Then I’d fit right in. Just ask Sansa.”

He stopped for a moment, to look her over. “No – you’re just plain. I mean ugly. Scarred and beastly. Overgrown.”

“What – like _you_?”

“Pretty much.”

Then she felt bad – he was being nice to her. Before she could say she was sorry, though, he'd gone back to what he was doing and didn't seem to be paying her any more attention. She watched for a while. It looked exhausting. “Anyway though, the Braavosi don’t look like that,” she pointed out. “My kind of fighting wouldn’t make a person so beastly.”

“Your kind of _fighting,_ ” he said, “Would make a person dead.”

She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. “Fuck off. I killed my share.”

“…Of men I’d already hamstrung for you.”

Now she was much too mad to sit still. “Show me something, then. Come on.” She hopped down and drew Needle.

He wiped his face. Heaved a sigh. “Get a fucking practice blade,” he said at last. “Or if there aren’t any your size, which there won’t be because the Vale isn’t a land of dwarves, go get the armorer to put a tip on that one. I don’t need to get stabbed for the sake of your lessons.”

* * *

The girl’s bladework was very neat, he would give her that. And she wasn’t lazy – whatever greasy little Braavosi had trained her had at least drummed into her that you had to practice a thousand times what you hope to do in battle once. “Again?” she chirped, still _cheerful_ somehow, after they’d been going twenty minutes without a break.

He was fucking _dying._ But if he didn’t want to _actually_ die the next time he fought someone, he needed to get his strength back. Drilling with the wolf girl was as good a way as any, when he was too bored of hacking at dummies but not yet ready to try his luck with a real opponent.

“It also works against a straight overhand stroke,” he said. “There aren’t too many men stupid enough to swing big overhands in a melee, but there are _some,_ so let’s work on it. Watch: this is my range.” He hauled the sword all the way up behind his head, both hands, and chopped down straight in front of him. “Now be careful – I’m too tired to pull punches, so if you get it it’s going to hurt.”

“You’re not going to hit me. I’m too fast.” She grinned at him. “All right. Move’s the same?”

“Same. And the timing. Ready?” He heaved the blade up over his head again, and _just_ as his arms went high the girl stepped in and jabbed her little sword into his armpit. She darted out of the way in plenty of time; when he swung the sword down it bit harmlessly into the ground.

He had strapped a light pad under his arm and the girl had a blunt tip, but still it should be more painful than this. “Harder thrust and shorter distance. A little poke isn’t going to do anything; pretend you’re trying to run him all the way through.”

They did it again, and this one _hurt._ “Better. Do it again.” He dragged the blade up once more. Fucking exhausted.

* * *

A full day later he was still worn out and his muscles were stiffening, so he decided to make use of the castle baths. He went in, didn’t like the stares, and glowered at all the fat Vale knights until they cleared out and left him the place all to himself. He planned to stay for hours.

He was drowsing in the steam, almost asleep, when someone splashed in noisily. They moved too quick to be an adult.

“Fuck,” he said, without opening his eyes or raising his head. “Tell me you’re not the wolf girl.”

She gave a low animal growl, which was all right… and a giggle, which wasn’t.

“Go away,” he groaned. “I’m resting.”

She splashed closer. “Hey: is that from me?”

“What- _ow_!” She’d jabbed a finger under his arm, right where it hurt worst. “Ow – gods be damned. Don’t do that.”

He’d had his arms stretched out along the tub wall behind him, but now that the peace was broken he sat up all the way and crossed them over his chest.

“You’re really bruised.”

“So?”

“I’m-, I didn’t-… Sorry.”  She was oddly flustered, so he arched an eyebrow at her to get the rest. “I hit Syrio a couple of times,” she explained.  “My- my Braavosi master. He was always nice about it but… I always... Sorry.”

He shrugged – which sent pain lancing all up and down his arm. Hm. “Want to make it up to me?”

She nodded. Didn’t even look apprehensive, the little fool.

“Then come here. Turn your back.” When she obeyed he put both hands on her shoulder (carefully; it was a _tiny_ shoulder) and felt for the muscle. “This,” he said. “This is sore. I want it rubbed – like this. Can you?”

She squirmed. “That almost hurts.”

“It won’t hurt me. Do it as hard as you can.”

He slid off the seat to kneel on the tub floor. She waded around behind him, grabbed hold (without hesitation; she was braver and less squeamish than most) and applied pressure. “Like this?”

It actually wasn’t bad, for a first try. “Slow, but harder. Dig deeper. And definitely don’t talk.”

She laughed.

“And watch your nails. I'm not asking for your scratches down my back.” It went right over her head.

“Like this?”

“Yes. Can you feel the knot, just below where you’re-… _ah_. There. Yes.”

She went on for longer than he expected before complaining. “This is making my hands tired.”

“Good, it’ll strengthen your grip,” he tossed off, half-expecting her to dump water over his head… but instead, she said _oh_ and went on with renewed purpose.

There might be some benefit to giving her lessons after all.

* * *

  **TBC.**

**Ok I now have a couple more scenes in mind and an idea where this is ending up. Cool – it like turned into a story! :o)**


	8. Practice

It took days to get up the nerve, but eventually Sansa entered the big dining hall, walked past the tables of the more gently born citizens of court, and continued on to the tables of knights and warriors.  She was hardly breathing, wishing she could be invisible to all the men she passed, because they were looking at her obviously wondering what she could possibly be doing among them.   Aunt Lysa hated when she did things that didn’t fit in… and she absolutely did not fit in here.

Arya, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, throwing her arms wide and gesturing with forkfuls of food as she chattered on excitedly about something.

The Hound had his back to Sansa and wasn't talking with his hands, but as she got close she was able to hear that he _was_ talking.  “-can't say  _no different_ ,” he was insisting.  “How many knights are on your bloody list?  They fucking- what?”

He turned to see what Arya was looking at, and when he saw it was her sister, he froze.

Sansa swallowed.  After so much time spent with Lord Tyrion, though, it was easier than it used to be to look him in the face.  She was able to talk without dropping her eyes.  “Hello.  I haven’t really had a chance to speak to you since you got here.  May I join you?”

“No,” Arya said, at the same time the Hound shrugged and muttered _why not_.

It didn't seem like she was very welcome, but it was too late now.   She stepped over the bench beside him and sat down.  The Hound shifted his bulk away from her and resumed tearing at his food – silently.

Arya was glaring at her – also silently.

“I... didn't mean to interrupt,” she said at last.  “Please, don't mind me.”

“ _I_ mind you,” Arya said, and got up and left the table.

“Arya-!”  But of course she wouldn't listen. 

The Hound heaved a sigh.  “I'll go get her,” he rasped, and got up too, leaving her alone.

She thought about trying to eat, but her stomach didn't feel up to it.  She could feel everyone watching her, wondering what on earth she was doing and probably wondering why they had run away from her...

“She won't come,” the Hound said a bit later, from behind her, “And I'm not going to drag her.  If the wolf girl wants to go hungry that's her business.  I'm going too.”

She twisted around in her seat.  “Wait – please stay.  I- I wanted to talk to you.”

He hesitated, then stepped around her deliberately to sit on her right side.  She remembered then how she always used to maneuver herself to avoid his scars, and suddenly she felt intensely ashamed.  “I... think I have grown up since you last saw me,” she volunteered, and made herself reach out to put a hand on his arm.

He jerked away.  (Which stung – she'd seen Arya nudge and shove him without incident.).   “My condolences about that,” he growled.  “I heard they gave you to the Imp.”

“They- I, yes, I was joined to Lord Tyrion in marriage.”

He didn’t answer – he just reached for ale and drank it, with his body angled away from her.  She could see clearly that he didn't want to talk; he wanted her to leave.

She wouldn't stay where she was so plainly unwelcome.  “I'm sorry,” she said.  “I didn't mean to intrude.  I'll go.”

She had already stood up, feeling very close to tears for some reason, when he said without turning:  “Little bird.”

She swallowed.  “Yes?”

“I was drunk and exhausted the night of the Blackwater.  It won't happen again – you've got nothing to fear from me.”

Was he...?  “No no – I should be the one apologizing to _you_ ,” she said, still to his back.  “You were always very-...”  _Kind_?  No.  “You were never cruel to me.  I had no cause to-, to be so afraid.  I was silly.  Please forgive me.”

“You had cause.”  He drank again.  “But I meant what I said – I would have brought you home safe.”

“I know.  Thank you.”  It was much easier to talk to him when he was facing away.  “And for Arya - thank you for that too.  I know she can be difficult, but you got her here and-, and thank you.”

“You're welcome.”  He fidgeted with his glass.  “Now run along, little bird – this is no place for you.”

He was right.  She ran along.

* * *

Later that day he was out in the yards with the wolf girl again, and she was in fine form.  “I _hate_ Sansa!” she was insisting, pawing the ground like a bull.  “She spoils everything!  Now I'm hungry!”

He ignored her.  “Do you know how to use this?”  It was an enormous pad, the heaviest they had, but he wasn't in a mood to hold back. 

She gripped the handles.  “I hold it for you to hit?”

“Yes.  Alternate sides, brace it with thigh and shoulder, give ground when you like.  If it's too much for you, say something.”

He cocked his elbows, blade up brushing his shoulder, but _just_ as he was about to swing the girl dropped the pad down.  “Why?” she said.  “You almost always strike one-handed when you actually fight, so why have you been practicing everything with two?”

“When it’s your turn for lessons you’ll fucking know it,” he snapped.  “Right now _I_ want to practice.  Shut up and do what I told you.” 

Her jaw dropped and her eyes and he supposed he didn't blame her – she couldn’t know how big a sore point it was.  He sighed and admitted, more calmly: “I’m not healed well enough yet, that’s why.  I’d get sloppy or get hurt.”

She looked up and started to say something, then shut her mouth with determination.

He hated girls.  All they wanted to do was _talk,_ and if you didn’t let them, then they turned all sulky and strange.   “All right: what?” he pressed at last.

“I was just going to ask whether you’ve seen the maester about it,” she said, “But I know you’ll just say-”

“- _Fuck the maester._ ”  They said it together.

He nodded as if satisfied.  “Now that _that’s_ cleared up?”

“Fine.  I’ll hold your pad for you.”  She hefted it up into position.  “You _should_ see the maester though.  You’re really good at smashing things with your other gauntlet, but you can’t do that if you need both hands for your sword.”

She was exactly right, which didn’t help.  “Shut it.”  He brought the sword up again (with both hands) and got started: flank and belly cuts, one after the other, as fast as he could load up and the girl could reposition the pad.

He went to ten and then paused to correct her (damn her for needing lessons in  _everything._ ).  “Brace firmer with your shoulder, and it won't jar so bad.”

She pushed her hair out of her face.  “I'm fine.”  She held it for another set, faster this time, and then another.  He had her circle for a while instead of giving ground backwards, and she managed that too.

Eventually it was time to pause for water.   He would have _thought_ he'd worn the girl out too much to seek out any more arguments, but as soon as she'd wet her throat she was already demanding:  “Why are you so nice to Sansa?  She's not nice to _you_.”

He wanted her to shut the fuck up and he didn't want to think about it.  “I wasn't nice to her,” he said shortly.  “Joffrey had his knights beat the shit out of her, and I didn't do a thing.”

He could feel the girl staring at him, but he couldn't look.  She was going to despise him – and he realized, suddenly, that he’d rather she didn’t.

But all she said was: “Which knights?”   Completely flat.

He took a sip of water.  “Meryn and Boros, generally.”

“Generally.”  Still without emotion.  “You're saying it was more than once?”

He nodded.  But he didn't want to talk about it, so he jumped right to the end of the story: “I offered to take her with me when I left, but she was too frightened to go.”

“Frightened?”  Now the girl looked puzzled.  “Of what?  I think riding with you is the safest way there is to travel.”

It was embarrassing how fucking gratified he felt; he fumbled for something to undo it.  “Don’t be too sure.  There are men out there who are stronger than me, and better swordsmen, and who give even less of a fuck about taking a blow.   Especially now.”

She stretched her arms over her head and picked up the pad again.  “Not for long,” she said.  “You're getting your strength back.   Already you don't move nearly as much like an old man as last week.”  She was teasing - but he was not amused.  How fucking  _funny_ would it be when his injury got them killed?

He showed teeth.  “Brace the fuck up and shut your mouth.”  

* * *

TBC.

I think soon someone is going to take issue with their behavior.  Lysa likes things the way she likes things, and...


	9. List

**A/N: Ok, so this chapter has been my favorite so far to write. I love Arya. She is _so_ awesome... and _so_ messed-up.**

* * *

Arya ate across from the Hound for dinner again. “Ser Meryn was already on my list,” she said, “But I'm going to add Ser Boros. Is that fair – was he bad to my sister?”

“He took his-” the Hound stopped. Banged his glass down on the table. “You don't need the details. It's fair,” he said instead. “The worst time the Imp put a stop to it, but not soon enough.”

“The Imp?” Arya frowned. “But _you_ let it happen.” He drank deep, without looking at her, and she knew it meant yes. “Well, _you're_ already on my list.”

The Hound snorted. “Going to protect the little bird now, are you?”

“She's family.”

“So is Gregor.”

She tried to judge his mood. He felt a little dangerous, but he didn't seem _angry_ at her, so she thought it was all right to keep talking.

“I'm going to kill Ser Gregor.”

“Not if I get there first.”

She ignored that. “And his friends. We got some of them, at that inn, but there are others out there and I’m going to kill them too.”

He shrugged. “Anyone who rides with Gregor, has ridden with Gregor, or may ride with Gregor someday, is fair game as far as I'm concerned.”

“Good.” She kept going through the list. “What about Queen Cersei?”

“Fuck Queen Cersei.”

“Well I'm not going to do _that._ ” She poured him more ale – and herself a little, too. “I need to kill her because what happened to my father was her fault.”

“Yes, probably. I'd kill her if I were you.” It wasn't clear he was taking her seriously, but he wasn't laughing outright, so she went on.

“All right: what about Ser Ilyn Payne?”

He shrugged. “I've never had much problem with him myself, but if you wanted to kill him I wouldn't stand in your way.”

“Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr.”

“Fuck them. They stole my money, set me afire, and it's their fault I took up with _you_. Kill them three times over for me, wolf girl; I'll buy you a drink.”

She took a sip of her ale and tried not to make a face – it was awful.  “With what? You're going to piss away everything my aunt paid you in drink and cards and whores anyway.”

He gave her a smile – not a friendly one. “Are you still peeved that I sold you?”

“I- First off you didn't _sell_ me, I'm not some _thing._ And second-”

“Yes you are. Bought and paid for.” He was _amused –_ it was _amusing_ him to make her angry. “You're _worse_ than those whores you're always going on about, because people can only rent whores for an hour or two, but _you_ get handed-”

She threw her ale in his face; that shut him up.

Except, then he reached across the table almost too fast to see, caught her wrist, and squeezed so hard the mug fell from her hand. She managed not to yelp in pain, but barely. He dragged her out of her seat and halfway over the table, not minding that she fell in all her food. “Wolf cubs are _so_ _precious,”_ he purred down at her, nasty and mocking and with foul foul breath.“Look at their little teeth.”

“I know how to _use_ my little teeth; you taught me yourself,” she snarled back. “Let go of me or I will.”

“Do it and I'll hurt you.” (At least he didn’t laugh at her! And none of the men who were watching the argument did either.)

She twisted against his grip. “You're _already_ hurting me. Let go.”

He did and she sat back down, glaring daggers at him and meaning it.

He wiped his face off, lifted his plate up and slurped ale off it. “Want to go out to the yard after this?”

Hitting him with something sounded like the best idea in the world. “Definitely.”

* * *

When Petyr  _finally_ caught the man walking the halls without his tiny shadow one day, he called out after him and ran to catch up. “Clegane.”

The Hound was a great hulking lump no matter what he was wearing, but now he was _clanking_ as he turned. Was he wearing mail under his clothes – even in the house?

“What.”

“We haven't had a chance to really _talk_ since-”

“Talking to little lordlings who like to _talk_ gives me a headache. Speak plain or I'm going outside.”

The urge to give a savage tongue-lashing was very nearly overwhelming. He breathed slow and deep until he knew he was under control again. “Very well,” he said at last. “In plain terms: what in the seven hells are you doing with Arya?”

“Just what you've asked me to do.”

“What I've-!” He breathed again. “We asked you to guard the girl – not make a little savage out of her. I hear you've been _teaching_ her how to _bite_ people? Are you really a dog after all?”

The sullen expression darkened further. “She was already biting people,” he growled, “I just taught her to do it _better_. She needed to learn. Not all of us have spies and assassins to do our killing for us.”

“Yes well now Arya has _you._ Surely you can disembowel men on your own, without her help?”

Clegane sighed. “Do you think there are people here under this roof trying to kill her, right at this moment?”

 _There had better not be,_ Cat scowled at him from beyond the grave.

He shook his head.

“Then,” Clegane went on, “What do you think I should be doing right now to best protect her? Sit around eating and letting my armor rust, or get her ready to protect _herself_ the next time she needs it?” He laughed. “Besides, if I told her to stop training and put a dress on she'd kill me in my sleep, and I like living.”

Arya shouldn't be anywhere _near_ the Hound when he was sleeping. There had been stories about their journey here, stories Arya told with a guileless grin, about how the Hound snored so loud he hadn't heard her hunting through his gear for the wineskin, about how he slept in armor so heavy he didn't notice her climbing on top of him to lie off the wet ground. The people who had repeated these things had thought them funny; Petyr didn't. Neither would Lysa, if she ever chanced to find out.

“It's not your place to make her put a dress on,” Petyr said curtly. “All I need is for you to stop encouraging her to do otherwise.”

Clegane frowned. “The wolf girl's happier with a sword in hand. Let her alone.”

Petyr arched eyebrows at him. Apparently there was some bond between them, and he didn't like people having bonds he didn't know about; it made them unpredictable.

A deep sigh. Rolled eyes. “I've come to like her,” Clegane said almost reluctantly. “Largely because we both keep lists of men we plan on killing, and we've got some names in common.”

“I see.” He wondered if there was anything to be gained by mocking the man for naming a nine-year-old girl ally. In the end he decided not. “I had a list too,” he said instead, dropping his voice almost to a whisper. “King Joffrey was on it.”

The Hound looked surprised, but said nothing.

“He was Lord of all the Seven Kingdoms... but I didn't like the way he treated one of Cat's daughters.” He stepped closer. He had to tilt his head back to look the Hound in the face but it was worth it to see him draw back a little. “What do you think I'll do to _you_ if you let something happen to the other?”

He'd had the satisfaction of rendering the man silent for a bit, but unfortunately he didn't manage to get the last word. “Be careful about using poison,” Clegane growled as he turned to go. “The girl likes to eat off my plate.”

* * *

The girl was waiting for him in the yard, perched on a fence picking her teeth. Wearing a look of supreme contentment.

He planted a hand on her chest and shoved – and grabbed her shirt _just_ in time to stop her from falling. “What are you so bloody happy about,” he growled into her face, keeping her dangling backwards.

She hung on to his wrist and hauled herself back up to sitting; he let her. “I'm happy because I've _figured you out,_ ” she said. All sorts of smug.

Her and her fucking uncle both. “Oh?” he said. “Figured out what?”

She hopped down and put her hands on her hips. “You're training me to kill the Mountain.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The things you're teaching me,” she explained. “It's so that I can-”

“It's so that you can _try_ and do _something_ when you face big men in armor,” he said over her. “Of which Gregor is one, yes, but so are Meryn and Boros to name a few. Me as well.”

Half a second of uncertainty flashed across her face, but then she shook her head hard. “No. Are Ser Meryn and Ser Boros strong enough to swing a longsword over their heads wearing plate? Are _you_?”

He glowered at her. All right: maybe it was true, in retrospect, that he'd had Gregor in mind when he was showing her where to stab and how to cut. But still. It didn't mean anything; in his head almost all practice dummies wore Gregor's face anyway.

“I've already told you who gets to kill my brother when we find him,” he growled.

Her face lit up, and he knew his mistake instantly: _we._

“Well, I'd like to do it myself,” she said, “But the important thing for me is that he dies. So if what _you_ need is to actually kill him...”

“What I need.”  He laughed. “In an ideal world I'd take the bastard alive and burn him,” he said. “Slowly.”

“You want to torture him?” Her face was serious. “No – you can't.”

He snorted. He knew he'd find the limit to her bloodthirst some day. “Nobody's asking you to watch.”

“No no, I mean,” She rolled her eyes and huffed with impatience. “I mean you _can't._ You can barely stand to make a fire to cook with, let alone actually burn someone who's screaming and stinking up the place. I mean...” She stared off – thinking about it. “I mean you'd probably also burn your hands doing it, right, holding them close to the flames or the iron or whatever. You wouldn't like that.” She smiled, shaking her head. “You'd probably fuck it up somehow, and the Mountain would get away, and then we'd _really_ be in trouble. _He'd_ be the one torturing _us_.”

He let the words roll off him. He _made_ the words roll off him, not thinking about it, _not_ thinking about it. (How could _she_ think about it? She'd seen Gregor work. She'd sat there in fear of her life, thinking he was going to work on her next. How could she bear to...?). “Shut up,” he said, and it came out all strange and strangled.

“ _Told_ you: you can't.” She shrugged. “Though _I_ could do it, if you wanted.” She was completely unconcerned. “I have no problems burning people – and the Mountain deserves as ugly a death as we can give him.”

He looked down at her. Down, down, _down_ at her. He reached out, as if to cup her cheek, and watched the way his hand could cover almost the whole side of her head. “Your aunt and uncle,” he said, “Were worried that _I'm_ making a savage out of _you_.”

She knocked his hand away and pushed her hair out of her face. “Pssh. I'm the wolf girl,” she said, grinning. “Dogs have always been the tame ones.”

* * *

TBC.

 

 


	10. Bet You Can't

Sansa was sitting at the vanity brushing her hair when the door opened and closed softly. Someone cleared their throat from behind her. “Will you do mine next?”

 _Arya?_ She turned around so fast she almost fell out of her chair. There was her wild little sister: in a dress.

“Arya, what's going on?” she said at once.

Arya scowled at her. “What? What do you mean?”

“You've got proper clothes on, you even look _clean_ , and now you're going to... brush your hair?”

“I was at the baths.” She shrugged. “We've been outside since before it got light out, so I've already done my training for today. Now I'm going to...” She hesitated. “...Do... lady things?” she guessed.

“I see.” Sansa turned back to the mirror to resume combing. “And why are you trying to do _lady things_ today?”

“Because...”  Arya plopped down on the bed and kicked her feet. “Because the Hound's got something wrong with his shoulder and he wouldn't go to the maester about it. So we made a bet.”

Sansa tried to understand. “You made a bet that if... you can be a lady... he'll go to the maester?”

She made a face. “If I can do it for half a week, and if he's still not getting better, then yes.”

“But that's ridiculous!”

Arya's head jerked up. “Fuck off!” she snapped. “I can _so_ be a lady; I'm not _that_ ugly; I'm just plain. I'll get used to dresses; the cunts of Dorne actually _fight_ in dresses, so there's no reason why-”

“Arya!”

“ _What_?!” she almost shouted.

Sansa stared at her. Somehow, without meaning to, _again,_ they were fighting. “I didn't-... I didn't mean it that way.”

“Hideous, you said.”

She tried not to wince. “I didn't mean that. Please forgive me.”

Arya stared at her. Finally she gave a sullen shrug.

“Will you forgive me?” Sansa pressed.

Rolled eyes. (Was anyone, ever, _less_ ladylike than this?). “ _Fine._ ”

Sansa tried again. “All I meant,” she said carefully, “Was that promising to be a lady _so that the Hound will go get healing_ is completely bizarre. Why won't he just go on his own?”

“I don't know. Because he's the Hound.” She looked up and blew hair out of her eyes. “Will you brush my hair? I remember you used to.”

That was another lifetime. Back in Winterfell. “You... used to hate it when I brushed your hair.”

“I hated _anyone_ brushing my hair.” Arya shrugged. “But you didn't pull as hard as the Septas.”

If she cried now, Arya would probably stab her with a sword and never talk to her again, so she took a minute and swallowed hard to be able to speak steadily. (Life with Joffrey had taught her _something_ useful, at least.). “Yes of course. Sit here.”

Arya settled into the chair and made faces at herself in the mirror. Once the brushing started she became suddenly talkative. “Did you know Littlefinger's been trying to get me to wear a dress too?”

 _Yes. I'm the one who complained to him about it._ But of course Arya would not want to hear that. “ _Uncle,_ ” Sansa corrected instead. “We have to call him Uncle Petyr now.”

Arya huffed. “Fine. _Uncle Petyr_ said I should behave better, and that I should trust him because he's the one who brought you safe out of King's Landing. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Then I guess I'll have to trust him,” she said, “Though I still think you ought to have gone with the Hound instead. Why didn't you?”

She knew enough to tread with care. No good would come of mentioning all the vile and terrifying things Arya's new friend had said to her. “I was alone and frightened. And he was frightening. What? – he _is_. Not _everyone_ likes swords, Arya.”

She was quiet – for just a second. “He also said he wasn't very nice to you at Joffrey's. That some of the Kingsguard would... do things to you, and he didn't stop them.”

“Stop them?” She gave a bitter little laugh. “He was Joffrey's loyal _dog;_ I'm lucky he didn't join in.” Arya stiffened, and she did her best to smooth it over. “No, that's not fair of me – he didn't have any choice. There was nothing he could have done.”

“He could have killed them. _I'm_ going to kill them.”

She looked up from Arya's hair, startled, and met her eyes in the mirror.

“I am going to kill Ser Meryn and Ser Boros for the way they treated you,” Arya repeated, completely calm.

Back in Winterfell, she'd used to play with a wooden sword promising to defend everybody from dragons, too. Sansa smiled – but she knew better than to let Arya realize she was making fun. “I... don't think that's very ladylike _,_ Arya,” she said instead.

Arya smiled back. “Don't worry, I'll do it with a needle.” They both laughed, and she kissed Arya on the top of the head.

* * *

On the last night of their silly bet (which he was still amazed she'd won; he had felt certain she would fail in some spectacular fashion and it would have been hilarious), there was a big dinner he didn't really feel like attending. He drank himself sleepy and went upstairs, but not too long later (he hadn't even had to wake up to piss yet) there was a pounding on his door. “ _Psst!_ Let me in!”

When he opened up the girl _hugged_ him. “There: I _did_ it,” she declared. “It's been half a week and I'm done, I even excused myself politely from dinner, I'm done and I'm never trying to be a girl again. I fucking hate it.”

As he detached her he caught a whiff of her breath. “Are you drunk?”

She giggled.

“First time?”

More giggling.

“Seven hells. If you hurl in my bedroom I'll beat you bloody.”

“Pssh,” she scoffed, waving him away. “You don't scare me.” She flounced in to sit on his bed.

“Lot of drunk men have died with that on their lips. What are you doing?”

She was flailing around behind her, pawing at her dress. “I need this stupid thing off. Help me – the laces are in back and I can't reach.”

He snatched her hands away. “Sit still.” He squinted at the impossibly complex strings (not entirely sober himself) and got started. Swearing up a storm. She begged him to just use a knife; he told her to shut up. After he'd finally got rid of the dress he manhandled her into one of his shirts. “It's bad enough you follow me into the baths,” he growled over her complaining. “If someone walked in on you without clothes in _here_ , Littlefinger would geld me.”

“Let him try.” A cuff upside the head got her to revise herself. “Fine. I'll be quiet. Can I stay here?”

He snorted. “You think I'll let you wander the halls like this? Get in bed.”

She fumbled at the covers until he fixed them for her. “Can we go train in the morning?” she asked.

He ignored that; she'd be lucky to be _standing_ in the morning. He showed her the chamber pot. “If you're going to sick up, do it here. I'll be just outside – I'll wake if you call for me.”

“You'll- what? You can't sleep in a hallway!”

“I slept worse places for Joffrey.”

He sat with his back against the door and his sword beside him – habit, mostly; there wasn't a man here he couldn't best bare-handed – and dozed off that way.

* * *

“ _Clegane._ ” Littlefinger. Still in party clothes. It wasn't quite light yet; what time was it and why was he on the floor? He didn't feel too drunk – why hadn't he made it back to his room?

“What.”

“Where is Arya?”

He put his head together and remembered. “Little fool was wandering the halls drunk,” he reported. No point lying; someone had surely noticed her at dinner and by now they would have told. “I locked her up to keep her out of trouble. Don't tell the sister; she'll nag.”

Littlefinger hissed – irritated, but nothing more. “Can you get her back to her rooms _discreetly_ when she wakes _?_ ”

 _No one's caught her yet, have they?_ He nodded, tipped his head back and went back to sleep.

* * *

He woke again when the door started jiggling. “Hello? _Hello?_ Let me out.”

He creaked up to his feet and unlocked it, to discover the wolf girl with her hands on her hips looking far too feisty for this time of morning. “What,” he growled.

“I did my half-week,” she declared. “And you're no better. You're losing range of motion, and I can tell the pain's worse.”

If even the child could see it…

“You're going to the maester. And don’t say _fuck the maester,_ ” she anticipated. “You promised. I’ll go with you.” She put on the forlorn pathetic look she wore when she wanted something, and standing there barefoot with his giant shirt slipping off her shoulder made it more effective than ever. “Please?”

“Seven fucking hells.” He'd given his word, but he didn't have to be happy about it. “Shut up and put clothes on and we'll go. _Real_ clothes – not that dress. How would you like it if _I_ trailed _you_ around in a fucking dress?”

* * *

TBC.

Yeah they're not much longer for the Eyrie. I think the Eyrie will be glad to be rid of them.


	11. Promises

The maester heard them out, asked a lot of questions (which Arya had to answer because the Hound kept lying), then tried to make Arya leave for the rest.  Before she could even throw a fit herself though, the Hound growled: “Let her stay; she’s the one tended it all the first time anyway.”

Arya didn’t really like that, because now if there was something wrong with his healing it sounded like it was _her_ fault.  But the maester examined the wounds only briefly and then moved on.  _I was right,_ she thought.  _There’s something else._  

He spent a lot of time moving the shoulder around and digging fingers into it from every angle.  “That one hurt,” Arya would volunteer, when the Hound didn’t say anything but she could see it in the twitch of his mouth.

The maester finally told them that there was an obstruction inside the Hound’s shoulder joint that hampered his movement and would only get worse with use.  It would have to be dug out, so that the shoulder could finally heal.

The Hound gave a smile that wasn’t happy.  “Dug out,” he repeated.  “Sounds lovely.”

He wasn’t _that_ uncooperative, though, all things considered.  He didn’t comment when the maester started laying out blades and pincers, but Arya put her hand on his arm anyway and reminded him that they would give him something so that he wouldn’t even feel it.

He shrugged her off.  “I don't give a shit about _feeling_ it; all I care is that he doesn’t fuck it up worse,” he snarled.  But apparently that wasn’t quite true, because a moment later he asked: “You’re not going to sear it afterwards, are you?”

“It doesn't matter,” Arya said quickly.  “You'll be asleep anyway, you won’t even know.”

He made a face but didn’t argue.  “Give me your potion.”  He drained the cup in a single gulp, and demanded another.  “That's a dose fit for a little girl.  When's the last time you knocked out a drunk as big as me?”

 “Give him more,” Arya said, because what if they did sear it?  “You don't want him waking up while you're working.”

The Hound showed teeth and let out an animal growl.  (She hid a smile.)  The maester gave him another cup.

* * *

Arya didn't stay to watch the cutting, but afterwards she came to stand by the table and wait for him to wake up.  “It will be some time,” the maester told her.  “He took enough to put a giant to sleep.”

She'd never seen him so pale and still.  He'd been pale sometimes during his fever, but he'd been twitching around and mumbling the whole time.  Even when he slept deep he didn't look this... dead.

She put a hand on his chest to feel for a heartbeat.  It felt slow.

“Here, child.  Drink this.”  The maester gave her some kind of tea, and it smelled awful but if she planned on taking advantage of his hospitality until the Hound woke up, then she had better at least be a polite guest.

“Thank you,” she said, and took a sip.  It wasn't bad; she took another.  “Is it all right if I stay?”

He laughed softly and pointed her to a chair.  “You're not the first worried daughter to sit up and-”

“I'm not his daughter,” she said right away.

The maester waved it off.  “Friend, squire.  Whatever you are.”

“I'm his prisoner.”  She looked up.  “He killed my friend, and kidnapped me.”

“Oh, I see,” the maester said politely.

“Now we help each other kill people.  He's really good at it.  I'm going to kill _him_ some day, though.”  She touched his chest again.  She knew _exactly_ where the heart was.

“Not in here, you're not,” the maester said, just as politely.

“No.”  Arya took her hand away and just looked.  “I want him to wake up.”

“He will.  Drink your tea.”

She took another sip, and suddenly was so tired that she had to go sit down.

The next thing she knew was getting woken by a slap to the head.  The Hound was up and standing over her.  “The next time I hear you talk about killing me,” he said, “I'm going to put a sword in your hand so you can try, and I'm going to cut you in fucking half.”

* * *

He checked the dressing in the mirror and it looked fine, so he eased a shirt on carefully and went to look for wine – he'd woken with a gnawing pain deep in his bones and it was already becoming fucking annoying.

He’d only got a few steps out of the room when the girl caught up with him.  “Wait,” she said.  “Listen.  I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“Good thing I did, though,” he huffed.  “I’ll be checking you for weapons the next time you try coming into my bath.”  He was joking (mostly), but the girl stopped in her tracks and yanked hard on his shirt.

_Ow._ He stopped too, because the pressure was awful, and reached back carefully to tug the cloth from her grip.  “What?”

“You did it,” she insisted.  “You killed my friend.”

The maesters’ halls were dark and when he turned he couldn’t really see her face, except for the glint of her eyes.  He squatted down slowly ( _very_ slowly; they really had drugged him) and said: “And what the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

“I don't know.”  She was silent for a while.  “All right: I’ll leave you til last at least.  I promise.”

He swallowed down the urge to make fun of her optimism, and said just: “Good enough.”

She grabbed him when he went to rise.  “But now I need you to promise _me_ something,” she said.  “I thought of it before, while I was watching you sleep.”

Watching him sleep?  Fuck the maesters and their potions.

“I need you to swear,” she said, “In the light of the Seven, on everything you hold dear…”   She hesitated. 

He heaved a sigh.  “Seven hells.  This is going to be good.  All right, come on: what?” 

She said it fast, but without dropping her eyes for a second.  “That you aren’t going to leave, or die, without letting me say goodbye first.”

He had to stand up; she was too earnest.  “You know that's fucking ridiculous,” he said over her head.

She punched him (pathetically.  Apparently he needed to teach her that too).  “I don't care.  _Promise,_ ” she ordered.

“All right, all right.”  He was never one to ride off without giving everyone a piece of his mind anyway.  “To the extent I can do anything about it: yes, I promise.”

* * *

A week after the maester worked on him, Clegane ventured back down to the training yards.

After two weeks he started bringing Arya with him.  (Good thing; showing off for her made him work harder).

Three weeks and he started sparring with grown men, four weeks and he was using his sword in either hand again, five and he started doing it in armor.

He wasn't where he used to be, maybe, but to Petyr it looked good enough.

It had to be: now was the time.

Petyr caught him on his way inside, still panting and sweating and stinking.  “I have some good news, Clegane.”

A noncommittal grunt – and a clanking twitch of gauntlet that might have been a gesture to _go ahead._ “Awhile ago,” Petyr went on, quietly, “You mentioned certain _lists_ to me.  Since then I've done some thinking.”

“Speak plain,” Clegane growled.  “I don't give two shits for your _thinking;_ give me orders or get out of my way.”

Petyr took a moment to consider the best approach... and while he did, Clegane started to clunk on by him.

_If the man wants plain speech..._ “Your brother,” he said quickly.  That stopped him, all right.  “He’s about to be called back to King's Landing to stand as the Queen's champion in a trial by combat.”

A snort.  “Who the hell's he fighting?”

“The accused hasn't yet named a champion.  I've found out that-”

“Bugger that; I'm not doing it,” Clegane said over him.  “I'd probably lose a fair single combat, and I've no interest in Gregor killing me in front of a hundred people.”

Was he as stupid as he was ugly?  “I wasn't suggesting that you stand as champion!”  He lowered his voice – with an effort.  “Give me some fucking credit will you.  I’ll know the route he's taking, and the size of his party.”  _Now_ the dog was listening.  “Lysa doesn't want him raping and murdering his way through the countryside any more than you do,” he went on, which wasn't entirely true but might as well be because Lysa would want anything he told her to.  “She can give you the men you need to go find him and bring him to justice.”

Clegane spat on the ground.  “Fuck justice.  I want his head.”

“That,” Petyr said, “Was my thinking.”

* * *

TBC.

Yay, revenge-and-murder roadtripping!


	12. Visits

**A/N: Apologies for the funky pacing here, but I'm being lazy and preferring to focus on the parts I want to write.  I wanted to get to Gregor.   So this is a kinda short update today, and tomorrow we get to the good stuff, ie murder...**

* * *

As they rounded the corner, the last hallway to their rooms, something moved in the shadows.

Sansa gasped; Arya stepped in front of her.  “Who's there?”

A low, rumbling laugh.  “Just me, wolf girl.”

The Hound.  Stupid Sansa tensed up even more, and although it _was_ odd to see the Hound here like this Arya was determined to set a good example.  “Don't do that, you'll scare people,” she said easily.  “Why are you lurking in the dark?”

He laughed again – and didn't move.  “The little bird prefers it this way.”

She wanted to leap on Sansa and pull all her pretty hair out.  The Hound acted like he was joking but he wasn't; it was _true_ and all of them knew it.

“I don't-,” Sansa started... but then shut her mouth.  Probably she knew there was nothing truthful she could say. 

“Well, what do you want?” Arya said.  “You're acting strange.”

The Hound shifted.  “I'm here for _you_ , wolf girl.  You made me promise, at the maester's, and so here I am.  Say it.”

“Say...?”  What had she made him promise at the maester’s?  She thought back.  Then remembered.  _Goodbye._ “No!  No you _can't_!”  Sansa was trying to ask her what was wrong but she was already across the hall grabbing at his sleeves.  “I'm not saying it, you're not leaving, you're not going _anywhere_ , they can't make you!  Who is it – is it Littlefinger?  What did he say to you?”

The Hound was laughing quietly.  “Nobody's _making_ me do anything,” he said as soon as she paused for breath.  “Calm down, girl.  There's a chance to go after Gregor.”

She made herself be quiet and listen.  “And?”

“And your Aunt Lysa is giving me the men for it.  Bitch wanted the credit to go to the Lady of the Fucking Vale, though,” he added, “Not the Mountain's ugly little brother.  So she put me on my knees and...”  He spat on the floor, loudly.  “Ser Sandor it is.”

“What?”

“Yes.  It was done just tonight – and quiet.  We leave tomorrow.”

“ _What_?”  Now Arya was almost shrieking.  “But I-, I have to pack, I haven't even-”

“By _we_ I mean _me and some other knights of the Vale,_ ” he said over her.  “I'm forbidden to bring you.”  He lowered his voice.  “I’ll be going with my squire: a skinny little boy who wears a helm.” _  
_

Arya sucked in her breath.  “Understood.”

The Hound finally detached himself from the shadows and pushed past them.  As he did he paused.  “Little bird isn't going to go singing to Littlefinger about this,” he growled, “Is she?”

“No, of- of course not, ser,” Sansa stammered.  “A, a private conversation between you and my sister, it's, it's private, of course I wouldn't-...”

“Good.”  He went away without looking back.

* * *

He was just about to crawl into what might be the last night of soft bed he had for a while, when there was light frantic knocking on his door.

For a second he was _furious_.  The girl knew better; surely she was being watched; Littlefinger would catch her and-

He threw the door open snarling _What?_...  And then froze.  Sansa.  It was Sansa at the door, not her sister.  Sansa with a cloak on and a look of fear on her face.

“I'm- so sorry to disturb you, ser,” she began – and then her eyes flickered down him and away.

 _Fuck –_ if he'd known it wasn't the wolf girl he would have put a shirt on.  “Come in or you'll be seen,” he said.  “I'll dress.”

She stammered thanks – and apologies – and stepped over the threshold.

“My sister sent me,” she said.  “She's with Aunt Lysa and Uncle Petyr, they're... visiting with her.”

“I'm sure.”  Guarding her, more like.

“She... says she's going to come with you.  She sent me to tell you... of her preparations.  And to ask whether there is anything else she needs to know or to bring.  I said I would come, but… Ser, you _can't_ really be thinking to bring her into battle?”

“It's all right, little bird.  With any luck it won't be a battle but an ambush.  A fu-...”  _Fucking massacre,_ he wanted to say, but realized in time that Sansa would probably not like to hear that.  “If there's real fighting I'll order her away from it and she'll obey me.”  He wasn't entirely sure about that, but there was no need to scare her unnecessarily.

“Don't be too sure.  There's no talking sense to Arya, _ever_ ,” she complained – and then let out a sob.  “There never has been.  She just-... and I don't-...”

Seven hells.  Seven fucking hells.  “Here, don't cry.  There's no need to cry,” he said, but of course he had no idea how to soothe her.  He held out a handkerchief for her.

“She's going to be _killed_ ,” Sansa wailed.  “She's a _girl_ , a little girl...”

He had to laugh.  “No, little bird, she's a wolf child who chewed through a man's throat with her teeth the last time we got into it.  I watched him bleed out three feet from where I was sitting.”

She looked at him, aghast.  (She must really be upset, then; she _never_ looked at him.).  “I... I don't...”

“Your little sister can take care of herself.”  Sansa had reverted to hugging herself and facing away again, which he supposed he didn't blame her for.  He fished for something reassuring to say.  “I can't promise to bring her home safe; that's not the way of these things.  But I can promise to guard her as best I can.”

“Wh-why can't you just leave her here?  Where it's safe?”

“If I leave her here she’ll only run off to go on her own.”

“But-, but why?  That’s what she told me already, and I believe her, but… _why_?”

He realized that he was standing directly in the candlelight; maybe if he moved she would be able to at least face his general direction.  “I told you once about killing – do you remember?” he said, as he shifted the candle from his bedside table to one by the door.

“The sweetest thing there is, you said.”  She sniffled hard and then spun suddenly to face him, square on and finished crying.  “ _That's_ why I don't like to be near you, you know.  Not because of your-, your face.”

So she said – and yet, now that the light fell only on his undeformed side ( _good side_ might be a bit too charitable), _now_ she was looking at him.

“Well.  Killing is sweet for Arya too,” he said.  “Killing the people who've hurt her makes her happy.  And you want her to be happy, don't you?”  He laughed a little.  “Not turn out all cold and bitter, like me?”

She raised her chin.  “I've learned that the world isn't like the songs – but that _doesn't_ mean everything is dark and horrible.   Even people who have been hurt can heal.”

 _How sweet._  He brushed a hand over his scars.  “Not everyone.  Not every hurt.”

“I will-...  I _will_ convince you.”  She stepped up close to him, her face so determined that for a moment she reminded him of Arya.  “Things _will_ get better.  Arya _will_ be normal.  And you'll find joy in something other than cruelty and butchery.”

He smiled at her.  Now his blood was up; now this was an argument; not as good as a _fight_ but certainly better than nothing.  “Anyone who wanted to marry a vile little shit like Joffrey isn't going to convince me of anything,” he sneered.

She swallowed but didn't back down.  “I was a little girl.  He was a handsome prince who tricked me.  But _you_ were the one who protected him – all those years.  What's _your_ excuse?”

He wanted to grab her.  Seven help him he wanted to _kiss_ her.  She would definitely not appreciate that, though, so after he'd growled in her face – with teeth – he made himself turn away.

“Every single person in Westeros wanted Joffrey dead,” he said, “But he didn't die on my watch.  At least you know your sister is in good hands.”

He could feel her, right behind him.  “Ser Sandor, please be careful with her,” she said after a long silence.  “And… be kind, if you can.  I think she loves you.”

“Are you drunk, or mad?”  It was no good being cruel to her if he couldn't see her eyes, so he turned back around.  “Your sister,” he said clearly, “Is a vicious little cunt who meant to cut my heart out and leave me to die naked on a riverbank.”

She blinked rapidly.  “Naked?”

“Never mind.”  Her eyes were still wet from her crying, and now that she wasn't fighting him anymore he just wanted to dab them up and be rid of her.  “I'll guard your sister, little bird,” he promised.  “But don't you sing love songs at me.”  He stepped past her and sat down on his bed.  “Now: you had a message for me?  What has the little wolf girl been doing?”

Sansa drew in a shuddery breath and straightened her shoulders.  “She’s bringing clothes and her needle, and anything she can beg or steal from the maester.  It’s occurred to her that people poison their blades all the time, and that if the maester can drug _you_ he could drug your brother as well.”

“It’s filthy cowardly cunts who poison their blades,” he said – reflexively.  Then he smirked.  “Right up your sister’s alley then, I suppose.  Now how the fuck’s she going to get away?”

“I promised to help her.”  Sansa’s voice was steady.  “I’ll be in the training yards, all covered up in armor that’s much too big for me.  Everyone will think I’m her.  No one looks at her too closely anyway.”

“Not like they look at _you_ , eh?”

But she was finished being goaded.  “Goodnight, ser,” she said, and made for the door.  “Please bring Arya home safe.”

* * *

TBC…


	13. Plans

Sansa stood by the sword rack, absolutely miserable.  Arya had told her to “just stand around sharpening something,” because if she tried to actually _use_ a weapon everybody would see right away that she had no idea what she was doing.  But now, it turned out she didn’t even know how to find something to sharpen.

The blades were all wood.  Sansa wasn’t stupid, she knew that practice blades were often wood, but in Winterfell the tourney swords and metal swords had all been stored just next to the practice rack.  Here, though, the practice blades were all by themselves.

She picked up a wooden sword, because she couldn’t just stand here forever.  She knew how to hold it and salute with it; back when she was so young that swords actually sounded like _fun_ to her, Jon and Robb had taught her.

It looked like no one was giving her a second glance – the yards were almost deserted, probably because the best of the knights were all going out with Ser Sandor’s party, and of the ones who remained the most anyone did was grunt “morning, wolf girl” as they passed.   _Wolf girl._   She couldn’t believe Arya.  Either everyone knew that she was a Stark... or they thought she was the Hound's bastard daughter.  

Their Septa would have had fits.  So would Mother.

Except, the Septa _and_ Mother had both been killed by the Lannisters.  And now, apparently, Arya liked to go around _killing_ the people she thought were responsible.

The Hound was probably right about her.  And he probably knew how to best handle her; certainly no one else did.  No one could do _anything_ with Arya, because she didn’t care what anyone thought of her – except her new friend, or teacher, or whatever he was.  It was even more annoying than her old dancing master; everyone had had to hear incessantly that _Syrio says this_ or _Syrio wants that,_ but at least the things Syrio said and wanted weren’t bloodthirsty and peppered with swear words.

The Hound was different.  Horrible.  But he was brave, at least, and strong and capable.  He could keep people safe if he wanted to.

“Penny for your thoughts, Sansa?”

She turned with a gasp.  “Lord- Uncle Petyr, you startled me-…”  Then she froze.  _Sansa._   He knew.

He stepped around the barrier – in his beautiful formal court coat – and took her helm off.  “Do you think I wouldn’t know you, Sansa?”  She didn’t know what to say.  “Do you think I wouldn’t know that your sister planned to ride off with the men this morning?”

Sansa swallowed.  “Did you stop her?”  Arya was going to think she’d told, Arya was probably going to stab her in her sleep.

“No.”  He reached out to untuck her hair from her collar.  “Lysa wants to think I tried, but we all know that Arya is where she’s meant to be.”  He kept rubbing her hair through his fingers.  “I am, however, surprised that you did not come to tell me what you knew.  Even more surprised that you would actually help her to deceive me.”  His fingers caught on a knot – accidentally, of course – and it tugged.  “I don’t like surprises, Sansa.”

“My apologies, Uncle, but I don’t tell anyone anything now.”  She stepped back – awkwardly; the armor made it almost impossible to move.  “After what happened to Lady, and my father, after what Aunt Lysa wants to do to Lord Tyrion even though I _told_ her that he didn’t touch me…  I’m never telling tales again.”

He sighed.  “I am not like King Robert,” he said slowly, “Or Queen Cersei, or even your Aunt Lysa.  You can trust me.”

She wished she could.  But she wasn’t a little girl anymore and now she knew better.  “I know.  Of course,” she said, and gave her prettiest, shyest smile.  “I just… so much has happened, so much my fault, and I was afraid.”

It seemed to satisfy him.  He put his arm around her, metal and all, and led her out of the yard.  “Sh-sh, nothing is your fault.  And you don’t have to be afraid anymore, sweet girl.  I promise you that.”

She tried not to notice that in the armor she was bigger than he was.

* * *

 Arya’s disguise lasted barely half a day.  “Take off your helm,” someone was telling her, “You’ll roast to death in there and there’s no point until the fighting starts.  Where did you even get that thing, anyway?  It looks older than you are.”

“Let him alone,” the Hound growled from in front of them.  “It’s his first time riding with us, let him wear what he likes.”

What she liked?  She was sweaty and miserable inside the helm, and it wasn’t going to protect her long anyway.  As soon as she had to piss everyone was going to see what she didn't have – and did he plan to make her _sleep_ in it?

She glared at his back, and took off the helm.

Immediately the knight beside her gasped.  “Seven- you’re no boy!”

The Hound didn’t even turn to look at them.  “Oh look,” he droned, “It’s the wolf girl.  By all the gods, what a surprise.”  Obviously not surprised at all.

“You- you _knew_?” someone hissed.

 _Now_ the Hound turned to look.  “Yes, and you didn’t.  Someone apparently thought _I_ mattered, and not you.  Now shut the fuck up and pay attention to your own squire, I’m sick of you already and we’ve just started.  Girl,” he added, “Come up here.”

She nudged her horse forward, past the others, to ride beside him.  Head high.

…until the Hound leaned over and took a hard swipe at her.  “I told you to wait,” he growled.  “We’re still too close.”

“No one’s sending me back,” she argued, rubbing at her arm where he’d hit her.  “Not if you say I can stay.  They’ll all do what you tell them.”

“I should send you back myself.  Beat you bloody first.”

“Pssh.  You need me, for what you want to do.”  She looked around, to make sure nobody was riding close enough to overhear.  “I was thinking about it, though.”

 _Take the bastard alive and burn him, slowly,_ was what he’d said.

“Second thoughts?”

“No.  But I was thinking: you’re probably planning to burn his face, and I don’t think you should.”

The Hound looked over at her.  “Oh?”

“If you do he’ll look like you,” she explained, “And you don’t want that.  You don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Mm.”  They rode on in silence for a bit.  Finally he said:  “No.  You were right: burning him’s not the way at all; I probably _would_ fuck it up.  I’ve decided that if I want to take my time, I’ll do it with a blade.”

“I still want to help.”  She checked _again_ that no one was listening.  “How are we going to get him alone?”

He nodded.  “Shouldn’t be hard,” he said.  “Gregor’s not going to fall in battle to any of these cunts, and he always dismounts sooner or later.  Likes it better.  So, once he does we just need to draw him off somewhere private.  That’s the plan.  We can work the details out later.”  He looked over.  “Provided I don’t gut you first for disobeying me, wolf brat.”

She knew he didn’t mean it, but smiling at him would be pushing her luck, so she didn’t.

* * *

The plan worked really well at first.  They cut off Ser Gregor’s party exactly where they hoped, the Hound called out to them that they were to surrender themselves to the knights of the Vale to face trial for their crimes, and the fighting started at once.

They’d found a hut a bit off the road, and once Ser Gregor descended from his horse to start killing people at closer quarters, the Hound slipped away to wait behind it.  Arya – armorless and hair loose because she _did_ want to look like a girl this time – ran as close as she dared and lobbed rocks at him.  It took a couple of tries before he noticed, but once he did he smiled and chased her right away.

(She thought it was wrong of him to leave his men; they needed him; they were outnumbered and they were going to lose.  But he didn’t even seem to care, which was just one more thing to despise him for.)

She ran.  Fast.  Even though running was part of the _plan,_ and she was only supposed to be _pretending_ to be scared, when Ser Gregor the Mountain is charging you like a bear, you get actually, truly scared.

By the time she’d drawn him off behind the hut and reached the Hound she was panting with terror, too hard to control.  She threw herself against him and locked her arms around his waist, eyes closed.  A heavy _thump_ against her back knocked the wind out of her even more, and for a second she wondered why he’d hit her until she realized that that’s what it feels like to get patted by a man wearing plate.  “Well done, wolf girl.  You’re all right.”

She turned her face from the Hound’s armor and made herself look.  Ser Gregor had come thundering around the hut and stopped short.  Was looking at them.

And then laughed.  “Special friend of yours, little brother?”

* * *

**TBC.**

**Sorry for the cliffie!**

**Next chapter will be the end, mostly.**


	14. Execution

**_A/N: Warning for violence.  Pretty violent violence._ **

* * *

****

_“Special friend of yours, little brother?”_

He went cold.  Ice fucking cold, a solid sheet of frozen rock pressing down on his chest.  The thought of Gregor with the wolf girl had somehow, incredibly, never even crossed his mind until now.

Gregor read his face and laughed again.  “I'll make sure I make time for her then.  And pass her on to my friends afterwards – what's left of her.  I've always liked little girls.”

Gregor and the _fire,_ he could smell it, and her screaming-

“Oh, _fuck you!_ ”  The girl let go of him and drew her tiny sword.  “Don't call me little girl; I'm Arya of House Stark and _you're_ the dumb shit who had me captive and didn't even know it!”

Gregor's head tilted: he was looking at her now.  That should have been _more_ horrifying, but at least he could start to breathe again, now that the flat cold eyes were off him.  He'd been too long without air though; his head was spinning.

“...The fuck?”  Gregor said.

“I said you had me prisoner.  Me and my friends.  You could have sold me for a fortune and a fucking army, like your brother here, except you're too stupid.  I guess all little girls just look the same to you; we're all just cunts with legs.”  Gregor was still just staring at her.  _Keep talking, girl._   He was getting over his panic, coming unfrozen, but not fast enough.  “Maybe you'll remember me once I cut your fucking balls off.  I've seen a lot of bad men and a lot of bad knights and a lot of big ugly bastards but I've never forgotten _you_.  You're on my list.”

When she finally stopped talking Gregor looked up... but this time it didn't paralyze him.  Instead, what washed over him was a surge of battle-hunger and entirely helpful.  “Get behind,” he growled, and shoved the girl behind him.  He had never in his life been this ready to _fight._ “But if I go down, you _run._ ”

Gregor grinned at him and came forward, and then there was no more time to think.

* * *

_Get behind?_   She should have kicked him.  She _wanted_ to get behind Ser Gregor, as planned, but she couldn’t, because the Hound had stupidly stood his ground instead of drawing Gregor back towards trees like they’d talked about.  Now they were out in the open with no cover, and it was going to be really hard sneaking around with no cover.

She had to move.  She ran away and made a big circle, came up to the side of the hut and hid there.  Surely the Hound would guess where she’d gone to?

He seemed to.  He was circling, turning them so that Gregor was facing her, giving Gregor a chance to see that the space was deserted.  (Arya lay on the ground, hardly daring to raise her head enough to peek around the corner.).  Then he turned them again, so that Gregor would give her his back, and drove him a few steps with a ferocious attack.

Two-handed, that attack.  Like everything – Gregor was too strong to meet with just one.  Maybe it was a good thing that the Hound had spent so much time injured lately; the grip had finally started to look comfortable on him and he wasn’t fucking it up.

He was, in fact, fighting more impressively than Arya had ever seen.  Still, against the Mountain he was going to tire before long.  There wasn’t much time.  She took out the vial the maester had given her, a potion meant to soothe and slow, and coated Needle quickly.

It wouldn’t be more than eight or ten steps to reach him.  If the Hound could only keep him still for that long…

Ser Gregor swung a big overhand, and though the Hound parried it the force still brought him to his knees.  They locked there, trying to outmuscle one another, and _that was her chance._

There was no time for second-guessing.  Arya sprinted across the yard faster than she’d ever run in her life, sword held out in front of her, and rammed into the back of Ser Gregor’s thigh with it.  No plate there; in it went.

He jerked, the Hound threw him off, and suddenly a _mountain_ of metal was staggering over her.  All he had to do now was fall in the right direction, and he’d crush her to death.

“Move!” the Hound barked at her as he launched himself at his brother.  They collided and Arya froze, wondering if she should _move_ or try to help.

Ser Gregor’s arm was bent at the elbow and she was to his side.  For a split second she couldn’t hear the noise of the battle or her own gaspy breaths.  All she saw was the shapes of the enemy’s armor, and with speed and precision that even Syrio would have been proud of, she thrust Needle right down into his gauntlet – and felt it pierce flesh.

It could only have torn a few inches’ worth of his wrist and hand, but still, it was enough to get his attention.  He threw his arm up, ripping Needle out of her grasp and flinging it through the air as she danced away.  _Now_ it was time to fucking move; she was unarmed and she’d just drawn blood from Ser Gregor the Mountain – twice.

All that was left was for her to go retrieve her sword and hope that the wounds, or the drug, slowed him down enough for the Hound to take him.

(And also hope for another chance to dart in and stick him once more.  She liked the look of his blood on her blade.)

* * *

He was on his hands and knees, staring at the ground, trying to catch his breath.  It was hard because he was almost too terrified to breathe.  He'd lost his sword and he had not one more ounce of energy to fight.  He'd kicked Gregor in the head with the very last of it.  If Gregor got up from that kick, he was finished.

A shadow fell over him and for a second he thought he was about to die.  He bowed his head; maybe Gregor would just lop it off and finish quickly.  He fucking hoped so.

“Hey.”  Tiny hand on his neck.

He sucked in a huge whoop of air and sank down to his elbows.

“You all right?”

_No._ He nodded.

“Ser Gregor is out,” she said.  “Alive but out.  Good job.”

“My sword.”

The girl brought it to him, and he used it to leverage himself to his feet.  (Which hurt: he’d broken at least one rib; he’d torn something in his knee; his shoulder was throbbing horribly.).  “Need to kill him.”

She stood in his way.  “Not yet,” she said.  “I rubbed my blade with some potion from the maester before I stabbed him, and we ought to wait until it's all worn off.  Do you remember how you didn't even feel it when they cut into you?”  Her face was calm.  “He should feel it.”

He didn't argue.

“In the meantime,” she said, “We should do what they did to Jamie Lannister – chop his hands off.  That way, no matter what happens he'll never be able to fight or hurt anybody again.”

He laughed a little.  “What, you don't think killing him is going to be good enough?”

“You killed Beric Dondarrion.  How much good did that do?”

A fair point; he didn’t _think_ Gregor worshipped the Red God but there was no need to take chances, so he let her go over and wrestle off Gregor's gauntlets.  One was already filled with blood.  “I did that,” she said proudly.  “I slipped my blade right in there when he was too busy with you to pay attention.”

She’d stuck him in the thigh and hand with a poisoned blade.  Maybe that was why his parries had had some give to them by the end, why his attacks had slowed.  “Good girl,” he said.  She beamed at him and then started skipping around – _skipping –_ piling up sticks.  “What are you doing?”

“Making a fire,” she said, as if it should be obvious.  “After we cut his hands off we'll sear them.  Otherwise he'll bleed out too fast.  If he wakes up before I’m ready, kick him out again.”

She was calm – even cheerful.  He could only stare; sometimes she terrified him.  Eventually she heaved a sigh and walked over.  “Come here.” She tugged hard on his arm.  He went down to a knee, and she took his face in both hands.  “He shouldn't have done this to you,” she said, stroking over the scars.  “And he shouldn't have tortured people, and raped people, and killed my friends.  Now he's going to pay – a lot.” She turned and went back to her fire-setting.

* * *

Some time later she sat against the hut, side by side with the Hound, watching the Mountain writhe weakly in the dirt and ash.

He wasn't going to be getting up again.  He'd bled – a _lot_ – and he'd had a lot of things done to him.  After they'd cut his hands off and seared them (which made the Hound throw up) she'd burned between his legs too (which the Hound had turned away for, holding his own cod), and then after that they’d cut him some more.  The Hound seemed to enjoy setting a sword against dents in his armor and using all his weight to drive it in.  He was careful to avoid the vitals, but the dirt still grew wet and dark with blood.  Ser Gregor's face was all bloody too.  The Hound had straddled his chest and methodically bashed him up with gauntletted hands – all the while talking to him, quietly enough that Arya couldn't hear.  By that point all Ser Gregor could do was jerk around making wet gurgle noises.

Now, they were both exhausted.  They sat against the wall passing a skin of wine back and forth, just watching him die.  It was taking a long time.

“When he's dead I want to smash his head with a rock,” Arya decided at last.  “Bang it until there's nothing left.  Can I?”

He nodded.  “Whatever pleases you, wolf girl.  I've said what I had to.  Now I just need to piss on his corpse, and I'll go to bed happy.”

The sky turned orange, and still they just sat and watched.  Eventually the crickets came out, though she didn't notice right away because of all the Mountain's moaning.  She started to giggle. 

“What?”

She took another sip and leaned against him, breathing in soot and sweat and blood.  “Beautiful sunset,” she said, “Isn't it?”  She figured he would either smack her or put his arm around her.  Either would be fine.

* * *

**The End, basically.**

**I have a couple of ideas for scenes from future murders or future conversations, so I might just put them up at some point.  Otherwise, though, this is the end.  I really wanted a happy ending (if cold-blooded murder counts as a happy ending).**

**Hope you enjoyed!  Let me know what you thought about it.**


	15. Epilogue: Ser Meryn

**A/N: This is scenes from Operation Kill Ser Meryn. They don’t directly follow one after the other, but they’re in chron order and you can pretty much figure out the trajectory of the trip.** ****

* * *

 

When they rejoined the group, no one asked where they had been. “A few surrendered,” someone volunteered. “Most not. The Mountain…?”

“Didn’t surrender.” Nice and forbidding.

“Still,” another knight said, “Maybe we should bring his head back. So we can prove we got what we were sent for.”

The wolf girl spoke up. “There’s not much left of the head.” She gave an angelic smile. “Or the hands. Or the cock.”

He should strangle her. “Shut up and go get his breastplate,” he said. “That and his shield should be proof enough.”

The girl looked thoughtful. Later on, as the men all sat around a fire drinking and dressing wounds and congratulating each other, she pulled him aside. “I have an idea,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Ser Gregor’s spiked helm is famous and he always wears it. And everyone knows what his shield looks like. His armor’s pretty plain, though.”

“So?”

“It looks a lot like yours.”

“So?”

“And you’re pretty big. Especially on a horse.”

“So?”

She sighed like he was being stubborn. “How many better chances to sneak into King’s Landing do you think we’re going to get?”

* * *

“We’ll stop here tonight,” he decided.

The girl didn’t want to. “We’re not far from the city. If we push on-”

“I don’t want to push on,” he told her. “I want a woman. The whores in King’s Landing are too _connected_ ; if I visit any of them the whole city will know we’re there before I’ve even spilled my seed.”

She started in, with all the usual arguments. He could answer her without even thinking.

“You’re doing to delay us for _that_? Come on.”

“Man’s got needs.”

“But they cost too much.”

“We have the money.”

“And they’re ugly.”

“Next to _me_?”

“And it doesn’t even look like any _fun_.”

At that he laughed. “It is.”

Then she said something new: “Fine. Then: _I_ want one too. Why can’t _I_ ever get a whore? I know they have boy whores.”

“Boy…?” He turned to look at her, to see if she was joking. She didn’t seem to be. “Boy whores aren’t for girls to buy,” he said at last. “They’re for men who like to fuck boys.”

“Oh.” She frowned, thinking. “Then… what do girls buy?”

“Nothing. Girls don’t buy whores.” He couldn’t believe he had to explain any of this to a fucking wide-eyed little child... Ned Stark’s precious daughter no less. The gods must hate him.  Why didn’t she know anything?

“That’s not fair,” she declared.  “ _You_ like to fuck after you fight. Maybe I would too – what are girls supposed to do?”

He sighed. “At the nice brothels,” he said at last, “Like the ones your dear _Uncle Petyr_ used to run, they sometimes have woman whores who know how to pleasure women.”

“Then we should go to one of those,” she insisted. “Otherwise it’s not fair.”

“No.” He glanced over to her and saw her scowling, probably preparing to argue and sulk all night. He wouldn’t even be able to enjoy himself. He sighed. “How old are you? Don’t lie.”

“Ten… soon.”

“That’s too young to need a whore. If by some miracle you survive to flowering, I’ll get you one then to celebrate. All right?”

She didn’t look totally satisfied, but at least she stopped arguing and let him alone. “ _Fine_.”

* * *

“I want to do it myself,” she said.

“What – die?”

“ _Any boy whore with a sword,_ you said.” She scowled across the alley. “I can take him. As soon as he comes out, I’m going to run over there and just run him straight through.”

“Trant wears armor.”

“So did the Mountain. I’ll figure something out.”

“When he comes out, we’ll see what- _girl!_ ” She’d taken off.

She did manage to get her blade into him; he’d give her that. But it was just in the elbow, so Trant knocked her down with his other hand and kicked her, too fast to prevent. _Fuck._

By the time Trant’s sword came out he’d crossed the alley himself, and he took the blow with a lazy parry.

“Little girls again?” he sneered. “Is that _all_ you can fucking do with that sword?”

“Clegane? What are y- _uhh._ ” It wasn’t the sound of a jaw breaking, but Trant fell hard against the building anyway.

He stepped up and held Trant to the wall with an arm in his neck. “Girl? You want to do it?” he called.

No answer, so he looked over and saw that the girl was panting open-mouthed on the ground, clutching her shin. She wasn’t one to complain over bruises, so it was probably a real injury. He set his point under Trant’s chin and shoved up without wasting any more time.

Then he went over to her and offered his hand.  “Up.”  When she only continued to gasp and stare, he knelt down. “Something wrong with your leg, girl?”

Bizarrely, she started to _scream_. He covered her mouth fast and shook her – annoyed, because it couldn’t hurt _that_ much. Even if she’d broken it it wasn’t that bad; there was no bone poking out and nothing twisted in ways it shouldn’t. “Shut up! Just shut up, will you? It’s fine. I’ll just have to carry you.”

She went even more wild, thrashing around and biting at him, so he covered her mouth and nose until she passed out. Then he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder and left the alley.

(He stopped to grab her little sword, though. If he left it behind she’d never forgive him.)

* * *

When she awoke she threw up. The Hound was there to hold her hair out of the way and explain things to her. She’d been hit in the head, apparently, which was why everything was confusing and why she was sick. He brought her hand up to feel the lump, and it was _huge,_ and she remembered people used to call her Lumpyhead and she started to laugh.

“You might’ve hurt your leg, too,” he added, “But it’ll mend. No more screaming, all right? We’re hiding here. If you scream I’ll gag you.”

“You scared me.” She couldn’t remember _why,_ only that he’d been crouching over her, blood dripping from his blade, and she’d been certain for some reason that he was planning to kill her. She coughed and her mouth tasted awful. “I need to rinse.”

He held water for her to sip. “Trant’s dead,” he volunteered. “Did it myself. Sorry – I know you wanted to.”

She drank slowly and tried not to feel too upset. “The important thing is he’s dead, I guess.”

“The important thing,” he growled, “Is to figure out how the fuck we’re getting out of King’s Landing. We need to go home; you’re in no shape to go after anyone else right now and I’m not going to do all your killing for you.”

“I’m sorry.” For no real reason, she started to cry. Her head ached and she clutched at it.

“Hush.”  He shifted to let her lie in his lap, and rubbed her neck.  “If you cry I’ll gag you even quicker.” 

* * *

The End.

**Help, they've got me and they won't let go!!! I'm trying to stop. I'm not planning to post anything tomorrow at least. I'm sure I'll fall off the wagon by later in the week though.**

 


	16. Epilogue: Queen Cersei Part I

**Epilogue: Queen Cersei Part I.**

The Hound didn’t seem to mind living rough. He’d eat food that had fallen into the dirt, he’d sleep on the cold ground in the rain, he’d wear clothes stiff with blood and vomit. Given all that, it took Arya a while to realize that he also really enjoyed pampering when he could get it.

She discovered he was especially susceptible in the Eyrie baths – there she could get him to really relax and _talk_ to her. She would bring him drinks, rub his shoulders if he’d been training, even comb his hair.

It was the best time to ask questions he normally wouldn't tolerate.

“I want to do Queen Cersei next,” she said one day, sitting on the edge of the tub behind him. “She’s too happy. She has everything she wants.”

“Mm.” He leaned his head back against her leg. “The fuck do you expect – she’s a Lannister.”

“I know.” His hair was all wet, and the water that dripped over her was chilly. She gave a big shudder and nudged him. “Move. I’m coming in.”

He scooted forward with a groan. “There’s a whole bloody tub.”

“Shut up. Do you want a rub or not?” She crouched frogways on the seat behind him, legs spread wide against his back, and looked for the muscles that were usually the problem. “This?”

“Mm.”

“So… speaking of the Lannisters,” she said, once she had a rhythm going. “Why did you serve with them for so long?”

He laughed softly. “You know I see right through you, wolf girl,” he said – but answered anyway. “I took up with the Lannisters right after my father died.”

“Right when Gregor took charge.”

“Can you blame me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “ _Mmph-_ good, there. I went to Tywin. He knew who I was. Didn’t stare, didn’t ask stupid questions like can I see out of this eye – how the fuck would I have been fighting like this if I couldn’t see out of one eye? – and just greeted me man to man and asked why I was looking for a place away from home. _It’s time to make my own way,_ I said, and he said _I take it you’re not close to your brother_ and I just looked at him. Something about it… I could just tell he knew. Then he asked if I knew what people say about the Lannisters.”

“Always… pay their… debts,” Arya grunted as she dug deeper into his shoulder. He always complained if she didn’t rub hard enough.

“Mm. He said it wasn’t just about money. _If you give me your loyalty,_ he said, _How do you think I’ll repay that?_ ” The muscles bunched under her hands: a shrug.

She supposed she could understand – she’d been with Tywin herself long enough to know he knew how to talk to people. “And… then they gave you to watch over Joffrey?”

“With most people I got almost as much grief as the Imp for the way I look, but Joffrey was a baby and didn’t give a shit. I liked it. We got along.” He sighed. “Until he grew older and I realized he was just as bad as Gregor in his way – except that _he_ was afraid of _me,_ which was a nice change. Hated him, but…” He trailed off.

“You hated him, but you still protected him.”

“Aye.” He chuckled, then turned to look over his shoulder. “That time your bloody wolf bit him? That was the first real hurt he took in all the years I had him. You broke my streak. I should kill you.”

“Good luck.” She smirked at him. “Now turn around, I’m not finished.” She waited til he was really relaxing against her before repeating: “So: Queen Cersei. Can we do her next?”

She’d hoped the Hound was so drowsy he might just agree to anything, but instead he snorted. “What do you want to do – catch her in the woods alone and chop her up? That worked with Gregor, it’s not going to work with the fucking Queen. You need real assassins. You'd do better to ask help from Littlefinger than from me.”

“I’ll think of something. I have to.” The thought of Cersei was making her knead harder. “I want her dead.”

“Mm.”

* * *

The End.

 


	17. Epilogue: Queen Cersei Part II

**A/N:  If Arya is serious about progressing through her hit list (which she is!), she's going to need some training.  I'm not a huge fan of the Braavos plotline in the books, though, so I have something else in mind.**

* * *

_“A warning, Prince.  I can give her to you, as I promised… but I can't make her stay with you.  The girl is a wild thing.”_

_“I have always liked wild things.”_

_“She keeps company with Sandor Clegane for good reason. You’ll probably have to take him with you, by the way.  We’ve found no way to separate them, even after the fool let her fight grown men by herself and get her damn leg broken.”_

_“Perhaps she needed vengeance more than she needed that leg.  I would have broken any body part you can think of for a chance to kill the Mountain myself.”_

_“So I’ve heard.  Please accept my apologies for allowing my niece and her dog to beat you to it.”_

_“Don’t apologize – they did right.  I came here to thank them.”_

_“…And to take a hostage.”_

_“A guest, Lord Baelish.   And please don't take that tone with me – I'm happy to conspire with you but we both know I'd be a fool to trust you without reservation.”_

_“Yes, we do.  All right: let’s go meet her.  Remember, though, you'll have to win her over somehow, or mark my words she’ll vanish before you even get her down through the Bloody Gate.”_

_“I have eight daughters.  I know how to win over a little girl.”_

* * *

Oberyn made the appropriate courtesies to all the appropriate people, reached the little Stark girl last, and bowed over her hand.

“Lady Arya,” he purred.  Littlefinger had already told her what he wanted, surely, but still she was stiffening and attempting to pull away – willful indeed.  “That is a lovely dress,” he said.  Gave her time to start to dislike him.  “...But it is not suitable for the rocks outside.  I would like to explore the outdoors here and I'm told you might be someone who could accompany me?”   She looked a little suspicious, but nodded.  “Excellent.  Then please: go change.”

She was clearly a lot more comfortable in trousers, but still, when he made small talk at her she didn't answer.  Eventually he told her she reminded him of his daughters.   “I have eight,” he added, when she was still silent.  “Eight bastard girls.”

Still no response.

“Six are warriors.  The other two are too young.”

“What kind of warriors?” the girl asked – the first glimmer of interest she'd shown in him.

“It depends on the girl, but most are trained in sword and spear.  And poison.”

“Poison,” the girl repeated.

“Yes.  Some say that poison is a woman's weapon,” Oberyn mused, “And perhaps it is, but they are women and they should use it.  _All_ should use it, in my opinion.  A weapon is a weapon.  A sword may be a man's weapon, but my daughters can kill with it just as well as anyone's sons.”

“What do your daughters wear to fight in?” Arya said.  “Do you make them wear dresses?”

He chuckled at the idea of trying to _make_ them do anything.  “They wear what they like.  My daughter Obara fights in silks and leathers – like me.”  He shrugged.  “But my daughter Nymeria is very beautiful, and she wears clothing that lets men notice it.  Some say her beauty is itself a weapon.”

She was quiet a moment – but it wasn't a hostile silence, now.  “I had a direwolf named Nymeria,” she said at last.

Oberyn kept his smile to himself.  Littlefinger had been a fool to worry.

* * *

Later on, they talked about weapons.  She showed off her little sword, even invited him to handle it.  He did so expertly, twirling and tossing it from one hand to the other, nicking his thumb with the blade.  “Well-balanced, very sharp.”  She glowed with pride. “It is a good weapon – for a small person.  What will you use when you get bigger?”

She frowned.  Glanced over at her bodyguard, who loomed silently a few paces away as he had the entire afternoon.  “I don't know,” she said.

“Why not a spear?  You are light on your feet – it would suit you.”

“I've never seen a spear.  I mean I've _seen_ one,” she amended, “Just never really seen one used.  Not used _well_ , anyway.”

“You should.”  He shrugged, casual and easy.  “I could show you.”

“ _You?_ ”  Wide eyes.  “Really?  Would you?”  She was almost bouncing with excitement.  “I want to see.  They say you're amazing.”

“They are too kind.”  He rolled his wrists one after the other, loosening up.  “Why not?  Perhaps we can go down to the training yard and find someone who will spar with me.  It would feel good after so long on the road.”

He looked past her and saw that Clegane was resolutely _not_ looking in his direction.

Arya followed his eyes and giggled.  “I'm sure we can find _someone..._ ”

* * *

The benches around the yard were all filled up, and there were people leaning out all the overlooking windows – somehow, word of their little session had got out and everyone wanted to see.

Sandor hated to sound paranoid, or afraid, but it would be plain _stupid_ not to be careful.  “Prince Oberyn,” he called across the yard.  “A word.”

“Of course, ser.”  It was uncomfortably hot in the sun, but the Dornishman was standing cool and relaxed in those colorful silks of his, looking bemused and at ease and.... rather like a woman.

That was what decided him.  _A woman's weapon,_ Oberyn had called it.  Better safe than sorry.  “I helped kill my brother,” he said.  “I had no love for Gregor, nor he for me.  He did this.”  He gestured vaguely to his face.

“So I have heard.  I am sorry for you.”  The prince's face creased with thought.  “Why tell me now?”

“Just want to remind you which Clegane you’ve got in the ring with you today – make sure you’re not confusing me with Gregor.  Men have died during _friendly_ bouts with you before.”

“Ahhh.”  The Dornishman gave a wide smile.  “You want to see the viper's fangs,” he guessed.  “I could be insulted... but I am not.  A man would be a fool to trust anyone in these terrible times.”  He gestured for his squire.  “My spear!”

It was brought, and Sandor looked it over.

“Blunt,” Oberyn said, jamming his palm against the tip.  He ran his hand along the blade.  “Dull.”  Then he grinned.  “But if you still need more proof...”  And he bent and _licked_ it, a long wet swipe, holding eye contact the whole time to make the gesture even more obscene.  Afterwards he smacked his lips.  “Satisfied?”

The spear edge glistened.  Disgusting.  Sandor tried to ignore it and be professional.  “Aye.  Thanks.  Mine's dull as well – you're welcome to check it.”

“No need.”  A graceful shrug, a coy little smirk.  “It wouldn't matter.”  Then he laughed and reached out with a familiar shoulder-clap.  “Just joking, ser.”

Sandor _wanted_ to hate him.  He really did.

* * *

If he lost, the girl would never respect him.  But if he won, the girl might never forgive him, not if her friend ended up hurt or embarrassed.  Oberyn expected to need perfect precision to walk the line.

He was pleasantly surprised, though, to discover that the Hound carried his own weight easily, an excellent sparring partner.  The man looked like a big dumb brute when he stood still, and a war-crazed savage when he moved... and yet most of the blows he landed were pulled to near-painlessness.  The few times a harder stroke found flesh, or the sword slid down Oberyn's spear to rap his knuckles, Clegane would hold up a hand with a grunt of apology.

(For his part, Oberyn was just as careful, though he didn't really need to be.  The dullness of the spear did most of his work for him; he could slide the blade across his opponent without damaging him at all, or thrust the blunt point hard against armor and do no worse than wind the man.)

Once he was confident that they were in agreement about nobody losing an eye here, Oberyn could enjoy himself a bit more, showing off with some acrobatics and some more elaborate strokes.  Clegane mostly kept up, though he did resort to blocking blows with his forearm probably more than was comfortable.  They each won an exchange or two decisively, sending each other flying through the air and crashing to the ground.  (Oberyn made a point of leaping up neatly when he fell; he knew it made a nice contrast to the ridiculous creaking clanking of an armored man flailing his way back to his feet.).

“One more pass?” he called eventually.  They were both starting to grow tired, and it would be better to quit at peak performance.  What sort of ending would the girl like best?  A tie, probably.  Hmm.

They clashed once more, ferociously.  Clegane was not holding his strength back now, but he _was_ broadcasting each cut in advance, allowing time to block.

Three, four, five blows and then there was a faint ominous cracking.  Oberyn felt the shaft weaken in his hand – he was being made to take the same parry over and over again, and his practice spear wasn't up to it.

_Clever dog._   Still, it wouldn't be the first time his weapon had broken mid-bout, and he would not be defeated by it.  He spun out of the way to open up some distance.  As Clegane charged he stomped down hard on the thing himself, right where the breakage had started, to snap it.  He ducked Clegane's sword stroke instead of parrying it, which Clegane hadn't expected, and they collided.

He saw air-dust-armor-dust-armor: they'd tumbled and come to rest with Clegane on top of him.  The man was holding himself up on his hands, fortunately; the enormous weight of metal and muscle might have cracked ribs otherwise.

Clegane hadn't exactly triumphed, though: his head was thrown back to arch away from the jagged broken spear shaft digging into his neck.  “Watch that, viper,” he growled breathlessly.  Since he didn't go on to threaten _cut me and I'll crush you,_ Oberyn took it with good humor.

“My apologies, ser.”  He laughed and withdrew the weapon.  “I hope I didn't give you splinters.”  Clegane got off him and even helped him to his feet.  They clasped hands and nodded at each other – a required formality, but Oberyn read real approval in it too.  He was glad: he knew without doubt that the girl would have nothing to do with him if the Hound wouldn't make friends.

Arya scampered over to congratulate them on a bout well fought – completely delighted, her smile sunny.  _The girl is dark and terrifying; there's something not right with her,_ Littlefinger had warned.  Clearly, the man had no idea what he was talking about.

* * *

The dust and ache of battle brought both of them to the baths.  They'd only just got into the water, though, when Oberyn heard quick light steps coming down the hall.

It was the girl.  She burst in chattering “Hey – are you-...” but then stopped short.  She looked back and forth between them.  “I'm so sorry, my lord, I didn't realize you were here.  I'll go.”

_My lord?_   Not _my lords_?  She would intrude on the Hound without apology, then.  Interesting.

Oberyn raised his head, fast but smooth.  “No,” he protested, “You are welcome to join us if you wish, my lady.”

Clegane shifted uncomfortably.  “She can have her bath later.” 

“Why?  Where I come from,” Oberyn told him, “We do not think the body is shameful.”  He favored the girl with a smile when she undressed. 

She smiled back – and _then,_ Clegane growled more audibly.  “Where _we_ come from,” he said, “Men don't prance around naked in front of little girls.”

_We._ Littlefinger was right: the dog really had found a new master.  More amusingly (even more amusing than the glaring hypocrisy of the admonition), he could swear that it was _jealousy_ he heard.  He couldn't resist riling him a little further.  “You fought very bravely today, Ser Sandor...”  A polite, curious smile.  “I am surprised to learn that you are so afraid of my spear.”

The girl covered her mouth with both hands, but a very unladylike snort still escaped.  Oberyn let his eyes flicker to her and his lips twitch – _a joke just between the two of us,_ that look said.  _A grown-up joke_.  The girl would like that.

Indeed she laughed and set her hands on her hips.  “I'm sure the prince is planning to keep his spear to himself,” she said.

After eight daughters, Oberyn well knew how to entertain her.  He pasted on an overly serious expression and faced the Hound squarely.  “Yes.  Do not worry,” he said.  “I am enamored with beautiful things, and while you are very impressive...”  Sad and solemn, as if delivering some very bad news.  “I'm afraid, ser, that you are not beautiful.”

When the girl giggled again Clegane scowled at her and ordered: “You stay over there.”  He pointed her all the way across the tub, and then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _Fucking Dornishmen._

She slid into the water obediently, the Hound stopped growling, and Oberyn paid her nakedness no further attention.  “Well?” he said.  “Did our bout please you, my lady?”

“Yes!” she gushed.  “Yes, it was amazing, you _both_ were.  I've never seen someone fight with a spear like that.  It was… graceful.  I guess I'd always thought spears were really big and awkward, and just for... you know, stabbing.  I sort of thought of them like lances.”

“No, no.  The point is-... pfft.”  He waved it off.  “Just the tip.  The bladed head is more important; the shaft even more so.  I could kill with a dull-tipped spear, or a spear with no blade at all.  The whole thing must become like a part of your body, and then no part of it is ever awkward or unnecessary.”

She was listening with wide eyes.  “I learned swordplay from a Braavosi water-dancer,” she said.  “He used to say the same – that your sword must be a part of your body, and then you'll never drop it.”

“Ah... Braavos.”  He smiled.  “I trained for a time in Braavos.”

“You did?”

He started to talk about it.  The girl became enraptured, and he kept going.  They were in the bath for two hours.

* * *

When the snake prince finally left, Sandor took a good long look at the girl.  She was staring after him, and her face was…

“Fuck,” he said aloud.

She frowned.  “What?”

“Fuck.  Fuck me bloody.” 

“ _What?_ ”

He heaved a big exhausted sigh.  “We're going to Dorne, aren't we.”

* * *

The End.

I am so glad to have concocted a universe where Oberyn isn't dead!   He's not going to make a whole lot of further appearance in this story or anything – I'm just glad he's ok. :o)


	18. Epilogue: Queen Cersei Part III

**Epilogue: Queen Cersei Part III.**

**A/N: This is the end of the Cersei arc, aka adventures in Dorne. This one has a minor warning, for underage kissing and questionable role modeling by a femme fatale.**

* * *

She knocked. “Nym? It’s Arya. Can I talk to you a second?”

“Yeh. Come in.”

She entered and closed the door behind her. Nymeria’s mouth was full of hair pins; she was putting her hair up herself, as usual.

(Arya took a quick look at the jar on her vanity, but it was closed. She wasn’t dipping the pins today, which meant she wasn’t dressing herself up for anybody dangerous. How disappointing.)

Arya held up the letter. “This is from Queen Cersei to Myrcella. I found something good in it, I think. _Really_ good.”

“Read it to me.”

“ _Myrcella my sweet, blah blah blah. I’m glad to hear that you blah blah blah. Not a day goes by that I blah blah blah._ But then, the good bit. Ahem.” She cleared her throat and read it carefully. “ _Your letters are my greatest joy. I hold them to my breast. I kiss every word you have written to me. I long for the day when I blah blah blah.”_ She looked up. “Nym… do you think she _actually_ kisses the letters?”

Nymeria spat her pins into her hand. A smile spread across her face. “She might,” she said slowly – thinking. “She might kiss them. Or she might just touch them… and weep… and rub her poor teary eyes with those same fingers.”

Arya couldn’t breathe. She didn’t dare ask the question out loud.

Nym didn’t need it spoken. “Let me think about it, wolfie,” she said. “I'll talk to my sister. There might be something.”

* * *

The wolf girl was learning some new tricks in Dorne, he’d give her that, but still… he knew her too well. He knew that when she poured his wine it was just a courtesy – unless she poured more than twice, in which case she wanted something.

Tonight she was refilling him almost faster than he could drink. That was not good: it meant she wanted to talk. So, as soon as dinner was over, he kidnapped a full wineskin and absconded to his room with it to hide from her.

She found him anyway. “There you are,” she said – a bit slurred herself. “I want to ask you something.” He winced – when she drank it usually meant she had questions even _she_ was embarrassed about.

Best head it off at the pass. “If it’s about moon blood I don’t know,” he growled, “If it’s about whores you can’t have one, and if it’s about _me_ I’m not nearly drunk enough yet.” He took another sip.

She climbed up to sit on the bed beside him, and held out her hand for the wine. “None of those. It’s about kissing.”

“Kissing's all right. If you want it on the cock it costs extra, if you want it on the mouth it costs even more. End of lesson. Go away.”

She laughed. “I haven’t been _paying_ for it,” she said. “Nymeria’s been having me practice to get good. The problem is I hate it: people stick their slimy tongue in my mouth and I think it’s _disgusting_.”

Fucking Nymeria and those bedroom eyes of hers. But Arya spent a lot of time with the woman; apparently she _liked_ her, so he kept his mouth shut and just took another sip.

“ _You_ did it once though, and I didn't mind it,” she said, and he should have known that’s what she was getting at. “Remember? After I-, after, it was before we even got to the Eyrie, it was-”

“I remember. That was a favor,” he said over her. “Not a kiss.”

“I know I know,” she insisted. “But still. It wasn’t disgusting.”

She was shifting closer, turning to face him head on. Seven hells, she wasn't harboring any _ideas,_ was she? Best hack them to pieces as soon as possible.

“Yes it was,” he said. “Licking some dirty little brat with come on her breath was disgusting even for _me._ Which tells you something – I’ve drunk piss before without complaining. Slept in a bedroll next to a corpse.”

“With-...” She blinked rapidly. “But- no. You- you said I just tasted like wine.”

 _Wine and wolf._ He hadn't forgotten. “I lied.”

She was quiet for a minute... and then said, firmly: “No. You're lying now.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you like. Since when do I give a fuck?”

She slapped him, hard enough to turn his head.  He just shrugged and took another long pull of wine... and then she smirked.  “You wouldn't let me hit you if you weren't lying to me.”

She was probably right.  This new craftiness must be Nymeria's fault.  Fucking snake.  He drank again – and then belched in her face. “Go away, wolf girl.”

“Phew.” She waved at the air between them. “Now _that_ is a foul taste. I'm not sure I _want_ to kiss you after that.”

He grinned at her – gave her a good look at the teeth he hadn’t cleaned in days. “We're surrounded by Dornishmen who belch cinnamon and sweat love potion,” he said. “Go try one of them.”

“No, I want to try you.”  She kicked a leg over and straddled his lap.  “Just cooperate, will you?”  And she leaned in and kissed him.

She seemed to be irritated rather than lovestruck, so fine.  He cooperated.  After hardly a few seconds, though, she was hissing impatiently. “Use your tongue,” she said. “Put it in my mouth.”

He pulled her hair. “Stop telling me what to do,” he snarled. “You want to be kissed? Then shut up and be kissed.” But he did slide his tongue in, as requested. When she said _mm_ to that he moved more forcefully.  After a while he paused to invite: “You want to try?”

Once she got started, she wasn't tentative.  He let her explore, sucked on her a little.  Even used a bit of teeth on her lip.  When she finally pulled away he took another drink.  “Happy?” he said.

She sat back, still in his lap.   Reached up to touch her mouth thoughtfully. “That was better,” she said at last. “It wasn't disgusting this time.  You're my favorite so far.”

“I'm your favorite?  Who the fuck else have you been kissing, then?” The Imp? People with pox? (He should warn her about that, actually. She might be too innocent to know.)

She looked down – shy, suddenly. Or sullen. “Lots of people.”

“But none man enough to satisfy an eleven-year-old.” He had to laugh. “Well don't _tell_ them that, or you'll scar the poor lads for life. Listen. Look at me, wolf girl.” He waited until she made eye contact. “If you’re going to play at kissing, find some decent-looking boys to play with. It's true you're no beauty, but you can do better than _this._ ” He flicked fingers against his scarred cheek.

She scowled hard.  “ _Fine._ I'll practice on pretty boys for a while... but if it keeps on being disgusting,” she warned, “I'm coming back.   You're the only one so far I haven't minded.”

He snorted.  “Your king of love and beauty.” He drank again. Belched in her direction.

She snatched the skin from him, drank deep, and belched right back.

* * *

She appeared bright and early the next morning. “Listen. There’s a reason I came last night,” she said. “It’s because I wanted to try you and then talk to Nym about it… and last night was my last chance. Because...” She took a big breath. “You and I are leaving Dorne.”

He raised eyebrows. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“We are.” She lowered her voice. “Queen Cersei is going to die soon.”

“Keep praying, wolf girl.”

“I mean it.  She’s sick. You’ve heard she’s sick.”

He sighed. “We’ve been hearing that for half a year.”

“Yes, but now people are saying she wears a wig and perfumes too much. That means her hair’s gone brittle, and she smells of rot.” The girl came closer and dropped to almost a whisper. “Tyene said that would happen… near the end.”

Tyene? Oberyn’s third daughter. The harmless-looking one.

… The poisoner.

“Fuck me sideways. You did it,” he realized. “You and the snake bitch poisoned the fucking queen.”

She preened. “It wasn't easy – the Lannisters are careful with _everything_ that comes in from Dorne. Well... everything except for Myrcella’s letters. No one ever thinks to check those.”

Myrcella’s letters. They were killing Cersei with letters from her own daughter.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” the wolf girl went on. “But I thought you might try to stop me – I know you don’t like poison.”

True, but he liked Cersei even less. He’d once dragged her in to see a mutilated whore passed out in Joffrey’s bed, thinking that surely a _woman_ would have something to say about what he’d… but all she’d done was look at the girl and shrug. _Do as he says, Clegane_ : _finish the poor girl and get rid of the body._ He’d known for certain then that Cersei was wrong inside. Rotten like her son. “It’s good you’re killing her, but fuck poison,” he said at last. “You aren’t even going to see her die.”

“I’ll see her dead, though, if I go to her funeral. They’ll march the body-”

“We are not going to the bloody funeral!” He laughed. She was _insane._

“Yes, we are.” She glared up at him. “ _Everyone_ will be there. King’s Landing will be such a shitshow that no one will even notice us. I need to go: Boros Blount and Ilyn Payne will be there as well.”

“Ah.” He thought of Blount ripping Sansa Stark’s dress off her. (Didn’t think of himself not stopping it. Needing permission from the fucking _Imp_ before he lifted a finger – and even then, just tossing his cloak at the girl with hardly a glance. He should have knelt to drape it around her properly, helped her up, led her away. If he hadn’t already had so many vivid daydreams of cloaking her in his colors maybe he would have.). “We do Blount up close. With steel.”

“Up close, with steel,” she agreed. “And for Ilyn Payne… can I chop off his head?”

He blinked. “You are nowhere near strong enough to cut a man’s head off. I doubt you could even lift the sword.”

“What, because I’m a girl? Obara beheads people.”

“Obara is not a girl. She’s not even a woman. She’s a beast. Bitch cut me to the bone with that whip of hers – to the _bone_ – without even trying. Remember?”

“That was an accident. She _said_ she was sorry.”

He realized, too late, that it was a mistake to mention the whip incident; now he couldn’t help but think of how Arya had dragged him to a maester for sewing and then tended the wound herself every day until it was better. That sort of thing made it really difficult to refuse her favors.

“All right,” he said, trying to sound annoyed. “I’ll show you how to cut necks, and you can give Ilyn Payne a try. One try. When it doesn’t work – _which it won’t_ – we’ll finish him some other way. Agreed?”

She threw her arms around him and planted a playful noisy kiss against his ribs.

“Get off me. The fuck are you doing!?  Practice elsewhere, I said. Get the fuck off me!”

* * *

**The End.**

**RIP Queen Cersei. Shoutout to Name of the Rose for the poisoning idea.**

**Let me know what you think!**

 

 


	19. Epilogue: Ser Boros & Ser Ilyn

**Epilogue: Ser Boros & Ser Ilyn**

**A/N: This one’s got a lot of Sansa in it, if you’re into that sort of thing.**

**Warning** **: This one also has a warning for… shit, I don’t even know what to call it, since “child abuse” doesn’t seem to be a meaningful concept in the GoT universe.** _**Adult aggressing violently against a child,** _ **I guess. Ie, the Hound has a temper.**

* * *

It helped that the Hound knew these men. He knew where Ser Boros liked to drink and gamble; they wasted no time in finding Ser Boros and slaughtering him merrily.

Hunting Ser Ilyn was harder. He didn’t walk alone after dark, or in the daytime… in fact, he rarely left the keep. But knowing helped with him, too.

“His bladder’s no good,” the Hound said one night, while they drank and plotted. “He can’t last the whole funeral procession without stopping to piss in an alley somewhere.” That was _something,_ at least.

Then the Hound grinned and tossed back the rest of his drink. “…And I’ve marched enough processions with him to know which alleys he likes.”

* * *

“Shame. He was _once,_ ” the Hound grunted, “A decent swordsman.” But Ser Ilyn was unconscious now. Armored and heavy. Throwing him around seemed to be almost more effort than fighting him – the Hound had beat him without taking a single wound.

“Now he’s about to be a decent corpse.” Arya said.

The Hound arranged him on a garbage heap and pinned him. “Do it. He's coming to; don't waste time.”

She shook her head. “I want him to be all the way awake.”

“Seven help us. All right. Payne. _Payne!_ Open your eyes, you ugly bastard. Come on, wake up, the Stark bitch wants to kill you. There: there, he's up.”

Payne was struggling, but weakly – the Hound was kneeling on his back and holding his arms. (He’d already wrenched each arm hard enough to pop it, but there was no reason not to be cautious.)

“If you miss,” the Hound warned, “And cut _me_ , I will take that sword, and I'll-”

“I'm not going to miss.” And she wasn't. Missing was never the problem. Getting the blade all the way through, _that_ was going to be the problem, but...

“Go on, girl. Take it.” The Hound nodded down towards his hip.

He'd never let her use the real thing before. She drew it – it was _sharp_ – and held it in two hands. It felt good. “You were supposed to kill people who deserved to die,” she said to Ilyn Payne. “How dare you lay a hand on my father.”

She swung the sword up past her head, loaded it up over one shoulder and used all her bodyweight to bring it down.

She didn't miss, at least. But his head didn't fly off either; the blade sunk into his neck and stuck there. He jerked around, and horrible noises poured out of his tongueless mouth, but he couldn't go anywhere with the Hound on top of him.

“Not a bad try,” the Hound said coolly. (Covered in blood, but he didn't seem to mind.) “Another few years, maybe.”

She nodded. “You can finish him,” she said.

He looked surprised. “You don’t want to yourself?”

She shook her head. “Can't get the sword out,” she admitted.

He laughed and they switched places, Arya lying full across Payne's ruined shoulders to keep him down. The Hound pulled the blade free with one solid yank. He was just turning to set the point of it against the spine when Arya changed her mind.

“Wait: will you chop his head off for me? Use _his_ sword. That giant thing.”

The Hound sighed. “You, wolf girl, are fucking picky.” He wiped his blade off, put it away, and went for Payne's greatsword. “Now don't move.”

The way she was lying there was only a hand's breadth between her and the target, but she knew that that was more than enough for the Hound – even with an unfamiliar sword. “Go on.”

She turned her head, wanting to watch the blade come down and the head fly off. As the steel flashed by her she flinched, though, and then a spray of blood doused her, and by the time she'd dabbed it all out of her eyes it was long over; the Hound sat wiping down Payne's enormous weapon, his boot resting on the severed head.

“I'm bloody keeping this,” he said.

“The sword, or the head? Either way you’re crazy. A sack of Ser Boros's armor is bad enough, but you can't _sneak around_ with Ilyn Payne's greatsword. Everybody is going to know what we did.”

He wiped blood off his face. “And, knowing that, who the _fuck_ is going to try and stop me?”

Two men of the City Watch, as it turned out. He killed them both with a single swing (though he didn't get _all the way_ through both bodies, something he said he planned to work on), and then everyone else cleared out of their path quick enough.

* * *

Sansa told herself to be prepared – after more than a yearaway, Arya could look like _anything_ by now...

When the doors opened and she came in, though, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Arya actually looked _better_ – instead of a grubby little farmer’s son, she could almost pass for a pretty Dornish pageboy. She wore clean silk robes in pale pink, hair almost to her shoulders, and a polite smile instead of her old scowl.

“Arya!” Sansa hadn’t _meant_ to run up and embrace her, but it had been a long time and she found she couldn’t contain herself. Arya giggled and squeezed her, then stepped back to look her over.

“You really do look like a lady now.”

Sansa smiled. “And you like a-…” _Man from Dorne._ No. What would she want to hear? “Some sort of warrior maid. That’s a beautiful color.”

And, _there_ was the frown she remembered so well. “This is a dyeing accident,” Arya said. “It was _supposed_ to be orange.” She shrugged it off, and dropped her voice. “We have presents for you,” she whispered. “Can you come to his room later and see?”

It sounded ominous, but she wasn’t about to argue when Arya was being so friendly for a change. “Of course, Arya.” Then she looked up at the Hound. “Thank you for bringing her back safe, ser.”

The Hound just sniffed. “You don’t need to thank me.”

She told herself that his glowering didn’t frighten her as much as it had before.

* * *

“So.” Arya was pacing the Hound's bedroom, seemingly too excited to sit still. “We were in King’s Landing for Cersei’s funeral.”

“That’s-…” Sansa started to interrupt, but then shut her mouth.

“Incredibly dangerous,” Arya finished for her. “Yes, I know. But we had some things we had to take care of. I promised you Ser Boros.”

“Ser Boros?”

“The ser died very badly,” the Hound put in. “Cried like a little girl. But he did beg your forgiveness before he went.”

“Beg… _my_ forgiveness?”

“And here: we brought you a present.” Arya leaned down and pulled the cloth up with a flourish.

Underneath it was a heap of splendid armor. “I know how you feel about knights,” Arya explained. “I thought you might be happier if he didn’t get to be buried in all his knighty trappings.”

“Aye,” the Hound added. “Especially this.”

She turned and saw him holding an armful of heavy white velvet. She knew what it was even before he shook it out: a Kingsguard cloak. “It’s yours now, girl. A trophy you’ve more than earned.”

“I-…” she didn’t know what to say.

“Take it,” he said. “It’s warm and well-made – it will serve you better than any of the bloody bastards who wore it. Myself no exception.”

He said it steadily, his eyes fixed at some spot over her shoulder. _He’s…apologizing,_ she realized in amazement. _He feels ashamed._

She decided to do what she could to absolve him. “Of all the men of Joffrey’s Kingsguard,” she said slowly, “You were the only one who had taken no vows of chivalry… and yet, you were the only one who didn’t abuse me. I remember that, and I thank you for it.” She smiled at him – it turned out to be a lot easier to do when he wasn’t simmering with rage and bitterness. “And I’m glad you took that cloak away from Ser Boros. It’s a present I’m honored to accept.”

* * *

When she first stepped closer, he thought she meant to just take the thing from him. But then, she reached up and brushed all her hair to the side, off her neck, dragged it over the front of her shoulder. She turned away from him and waited like that.

_Sweet gods she was asking him to cloak her._

Maybe he should have trained himself to have fantasies of _fucking_ the girl he wanted, like every other man in the seven kingdoms. Instead, what he had imagined time and again was exactly this. Just this. Cloaking her. Doing it in the sept, in marriage, laying claim to her and enveloping her and taking her as his own.

And now here it was. She was standing and waiting for it, _for him_ , her long neck bared and arched for him.  For him.

 _Fucking do it._ He couldn’t just stand here staring like an idiot.

With the first step he realized he’d sprung a cockstand, painful in its intensity, inappropriate and hopeless and probably fucking sacrilegious as well. There _had_ to be something wrong with getting hard at the thought of a pious little virgin standing in the holy sept glowing with virtue on her wedding day.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He tried to put himself back together; he knew the wolf girl was looking at him and probably noticing and if he kept acting strange she might speak up. He _couldn’t_ let that happen. The humiliation would kill him.

Somehow, he made it the few paces to stand behind her, cloak at the ready. _Gods be good._ Looking at her, he couldn’t even manage to think swear words. His usual vocabulary deserted him completely.

For one long moment he was frozen. Then, he saw his breath ruffle the fine wisps of hair on her nape, saw how _fragile_ she was, her neck just _there_ for anyone to-…

In an instant of panic he swept the cloak around her, over her shoulders, and pressed it to her firmly. _There._ Covering her helped a little, he felt his terror recede as she reached up to tug at the velvet, straightening it. She looked safer now, protected – and she was. He’d behead every fucking person in Westeros before he let her come to harm.

(It was a shame that Joffrey and Meryn and Boros were all dead already; he had a powerful need, suddenly, to rip parts off them.)

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said softly. His hands were still on her shoulders, resting lightly – somehow, he wasn’t yet able to move.

She turned to face him – turned in his arms, really; now he was almost embracing her. She was looking up at him, solemn even though her lips were curved into a smile. “Thank you,” she said once more… and then she reached up to him, drew him down, and kissed him on the cheek.

All he could do was stand there. He would have stood there forever…

…Had not the wolf girl shattered the moment with a loud theatrical sigh. “ _Really_? Are you _serious_? That is the _most_ knightly thing I have _ever_ seen _anybody_ do. I should go get a singer to come write a _song_ about it _._ ”

* * *

Sansa took a step back – an awkward, staggering step, because Ser Boros’s cloak was much too long for her and it was dragging on the ground under her feet. “I- I, um-.” Arya was right. _Completely_ right, what _had_ they been doing, she’d been standing there mesmerized like it was a scene from one of those songs the Hound despised so much.

He was going to hate her for getting so swept away by it. Surely all he’d meant was to give her a present, and now she’d had to go and-

“I- I need to go,” she stammered. “I-, Excuse me, ser.” She pushed past him – still wearing the cloak! – and made for the door.

* * *

While Sansa left he was still standing shocked, but any second now it was going to transform into rage and the wolf girl had better fucking run for cover when it did.

“What?” she said, and hopped to her feet. “You should _thank_ me. In a minute you were going to do something silly and embarrass yourself.”

He tried to find his voice again. “I- I wasn’t…”

“Yes you were. You’re in love with my sister,” she said flatly, “And for a second all the stars aligned or something and she was in love with you too. But it wouldn’t last. In a minute she would’ve remembered that you’re ugly and you kill people, and she would’ve started crying about it and everything would be a mess.”

He made his face blank. Tried to hear the wisdom in it and nothing else.

“What?” she said after a long silence. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

He nodded. “Aye. Give me a moment though,” he said tightly. “I’m trying not to beat you.”

Her eyes narrowed. She came close. “Go ahead,” she challenged. “Hit me if you want. You’re always _saying_ you’ll do it and I’m starting not to believe you. Go on! Not the face, though – we don't need _both_ of us to be ugly.”

All at once he found his rage. “ _Fuck_ your face.” He slammed the heel of his hand into her shoulder, to spin her around so that he could punch her hard in the back. She went flying, careening into the bed and crashing face-down onto it. He followed her and flattened her with another punch as she tried to get up. Then hit her in the thigh – twice. The second time she cried out.

She crumpled down, sliding to the floor, grabbing at her leg (but also curling up to protect her vitals. Good girl.). He aimed a hard kick at the bedpost next to her. Pain shot up from his ankle. Felt excellent.

 _Ow._ He was still pretty angry, but at least he’d burned off what he couldn’t control. He sat down heavy on the bed – sighing when she tensed and flinched away from him.

“Enough – I'm done,” he said, when he was sure. “You all right?”

She nodded and relaxed against the ground – went limp, really – but made no move to rise. She was breathing in gasps. Not crying, it sounded like, but still.

“All right, wolf girl. Up.” When he offered a hand she ignored it, so he knelt down to just lift her bodily and dump her on the bed. “There.”

She wasn’t pulling away, but she also wasn’t uncurling herself or turning to face him.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last.

Fucking women. He’d hit her, come close to losing his temper and giving her a real beating… and now _she_ was the one apologizing. (For what?) What was he even supposed to say to that?

They sat for another while in silence, calming down. Finally he admitted: “I'm not in _love_ with the girl... but you’re right. I was about to say something silly and embarrass myself.”

She snorted. Wriggled a little to press herself against him. “I know. You’re welcome. Do you feel better now?”

He did – purged and peaceful. “Yes.”

“You're welcome for that too.”

* * *

**TBC?**

**Don’t worry, they won’t make a habit of this. Their relationship was fucked-up enough already.**

**The next bit I have in mind is sort of a bridge between this set of kills and the next one, which as I envision now is going to be kind of a big disaster.**

**Let me know what you think!**

 


	20. Epilogue: Walder Frey Part I

** Epilogue:  Walder Frey Part I **

After her ridiculous scene with Ser Boros's cloak, Sansa was much more apt to try tagging along with them.  Arya didn't like it because it made the Hound all tongue-tied and sullen – and because Sansa didn't approve of most of their conversation anyway.  She was really horrified over what they’d done to Ser Boros, even though it was totally justified and funny as well.  Arya had carved _Not A True Knight_ into his fat dead face so that when he came to stand before the Seven they would know what he was.  The Hound had wanted to write too, but they'd been interrupted before he was finished… so, instead of _Coward Cunt Who Can't Fight His Way Out Of A Sack,_ all he'd carved into Ser Boros's dead flesh in the end was _Cow._   “Wonder what the fucking Seven'll make of that?” he laughed, and Arya was in stitches but Sansa looked almost ready to puke.

She didn’t approve of any of their plans to kill Walder Frey, either.

“We don't know the man well enough to hunt him by his habits,” the Hound complained one night.  “He's got to be alone _sometimes,_ though.  Hm.”  He was drinking, heavily – he seemed to believe it helped him think.  “Man's probably alone when he shits.  We could catch him there.”

Sansa shook her head.  “That would never work.  Do you already know where the privies are in Lord Walder's home?  The household guard will never just let you walk around exploring with that gigantic sword.  And how would you know when he's in there, anyway?  Or do you mean to just stand in there all day and wait?”

Not to be outdone, Arya found an even bigger problem with the proposal.  “Also there's no _room_ to kill anyone in a privy,” she pointed out.  “Especially not with you, you're too big.  Imagine you and me and Lord Walder all crammed in there together.”

The Hound sighed.  “Fine.  Man's probably alone when he fucks.”

Again Sansa shook her head.  “No, he's with his _wife_ when he does that, and unless you're planning on killing her too...”  Then she huffed.  “Well, I suppose he’s not _always_ with his wife,” she corrected herself.  “They say he still claims the Lord's Night, so he might be there with some poor peasant girl just before her wedding.  But still.”

Arya saw the solution immediately.  “Lord's Night,” she repeated.  “Lord Walder all alone with… some poor little girl.”  She fluttered her eyelashes.

“ _No,”_ the Hound growled.  “Out of the bloody fucking question.”

 _“_ Why?”  She loved the idea.  “I can stab him with the hairpiece Nymeria gave me.  It'll be easy.”

Sansa grabbed her shoulder.  “Arya?  Arya, what are you saying?”

The Hound stood and separated them.  “That’s enough, little bird.  Go on to bed – I’ll handle this.”

Arya was sure he was sending her away so that they could get down to business planning it out… but as soon as Sansa was gone, incredibly, he _kept arguing._ He insisted it was too dangerous and predicted fifty ways the plan could go wrong, all of them ending with Arya raped by Lord Walder and raped by all his guardsmen and killed messily.  (Sometimes, not in that order.)

In the end she had to shame him into it.  “What's it to you?” she said.  “Lord Walder is older than dirt and I'm not afraid of him; _please_ tell me you're not either.  Anyway, we're not even risking _your_ life.  Are you telling me you _care_ what happens to me?  Are you telling me you'll weep?”

That convinced him, at least... but not by much.

* * *

He made her practice _every little thing._    “You can't undress for Frey that way,” he growled one night when she yanked her shirt over her head for a bath without thinking.  “Blush if you can.  Try and pretend you're a sweet, innocent maid.”

 _Pretend I'm Sansa?_ she wanted to laugh, but with bruises still blooming after two weeks she didn't need the Hound to give her another beating, so she decided not to talk back to him about Sansa.  “Like this?” she said instead, and tried again, doing it slow and hesitant this time, creasing her brow and throwing him nervous looks as she went, hiding behind her bunched-up clothes and her hands.  “Better?”

“Aye, better.”

It was the same with the hairpiece.  Arya practiced pulling the blade out when there would be time: while Frey climbed onto the bed, in the instant she uncovered herself (“His eyes won't be on your damn hair then”), while he took his cock out.  She practiced finding moments to stab him with it.  When he kissed her, when he climbed on top of her, when he bent to bite her somewhere.

They tried to cover every contingency.  “He may not do you the favor of bringing his throat so damn close,” the Hound said.  “Safe to assume Walder Frey's no acrobat, but he may put you on your hands and knees.  Try that.”

On her hands and knees she couldn’t see her enemy; he could be doing _anything_ back there behind her.  The bed dipped with his weight, she felt the scratch of his clothes against her legs as he pressed up close, one huge hand closed on her shoulder and the other slapped her lazily on the hip.  “All right, wolf girl:  now what do you do?”

Spinning around to bury the blade in somebody's neck was harder from this position.   She drilled it over and over again until she got quicker.  He was patient about it – even when the point slid off his collar and scratched him bleeding.  “Better that than you fuck it up when it counts,” he said, and flipped her back over to try again.

And again, and again, and again.

* * *

He had never appreciated until now how _tiny_ the wolf girl was.  He noticed when it came time to teach her to throw punches: even after a lot of work, it was apparent that if it came to a brawl she was more likely to break her own hands than hurt Frey with them.  He taught her to use her skull and her elbows instead.  She got good enough to smash up a man who wasn't fighting back, but not much better.

She _was_ good with the stiletto, though.  She worked at it with all her usual stubbornness, until it could appear like magic in her hand, until she could find his throat with it at will, blindfolded, from any position.  He felt excellent about her chances against a weak old man – especially when he took into account that the blade she meant to use was a gift from Nymeria Sand and even a scratch would probably do the job.

They kept it all secret from Sansa - until they stopped to say farewell to her just before they slipped away.  “We’ve figured out what to do about Frey,” Sandor said coolly.  “We’re going to go do it now.  Shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks.  You can run to Littlefinger like a good little bird after we've gone, but you’d best tell him we're all right.  If he sends anybody after us we'll bloody send them home in pieces – and it'll be your fault.  Understand?”

“You’re not… going to let Arya…?”

He laughed at her.  “You think I’ll let the wolf girl do her killing alone?”  It wasn’t actually a _lie._

Sansa relaxed and wished them good luck without any more fussing.  Dawn was just breaking, and it was turning her hair fantastic shades and he wanted – so badly! – to lean down and kiss her goodbye.

But women was for afterwards.   First things first.

* * *

They knew he was too easily recognized to risk playing the girl’s father himself.  Instead, they decided to use one of Walder Frey’s real smallfolk.  They found one on the road who sounded clever enough, and offered him a choice between steel and silver to participate.  Convincing him wasn't difficult... but it turned out that sending the wolf girl into Frey's castle alone with him _was_.

“I'll be fine,” she promised.  “I'll do it and I'll get out.  We’ll be long gone before anyone even knows he’s dead.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

She rolled her eyes.  “If something goes wrong I give my name and stay alive,” she recited, “And I wait to be rescued or ransomed.”

“Good girl.  Don't die.”  He turned to the peasant.  “And you: don't fuck up.  You're bringing your daughter to your lord the night before her wedding.  It's a simple story.  Get it right or I'll kill you – so slow that you'll-”

“ _Stop it,_ ” Arya snapped.  “Don't scare him, that's not helping.”  She gave a hug, which he made only token efforts to resist, and then led her supposed father off towards the Twins.

* * *

Two hours later the peasant was back, alone.  Looking nervous.  “Ser?”

“Don't-...”  He couldn't rightly tell people not to _ser_ him anymore.  Hated it.  “Don't waste my time,” he said instead.  “Spit it out.  Did it work?”

“They took her in.  Said I done right and that Lord Walder will like her.  That part's all right.”

“That part?” he rasped.  Choking on nothing – he had a _horrible_ feeling all of a sudden.

“The guardsman took her hairpiece, ser.  For his daughter.”

“Took her...?”  He stared stupidly.  “You let her go in... without her weapon.  _You let her go in without her fucking weapon?_ ”

“What- what was I supposed to _do_?  Sh-she wanted to, I didn't-”

He drew and slashed in one motion, opening the man from hip to shoulder, and then knocked him down with his free hand.  The man had time for half a scream before his head was stomped in.

Then he had nothing to do but pace and _wait._  And fucking imagine disasters of all fucking proportions.

If the wolf girl had any sense, any sense at all, the worst she was risking tonight was a fucking from old Lord Walder.  If she could just keep her mouth shut and do what he asked of her, come morning he'd release her unharmed and she could start right away thinking up new ways to kill him.

But he knew Arya better than that.  She was going to fucking attack him, kill the old man with her bare hands or die trying.  (Or maybe, kill the old man and _then_ die, when the household heard the commotion and burst in.)

He tried not to think of her skinny little arms.  Walder Frey was old but he wasn't feeble.  He was still healthy enough to fuck.

Like as not he'd be fucking the wolf girl's corpse pretty soon.

_And what the fuck can I do about it._

Absolutely nothing, except wait.  He wanted a drink or three to settle himself, but for all he knew he'd be needed to rescue or avenge her later so it was probably best to stay sober.

He paced. He sharpened his sword.  He waited.

* * *

**TBC.**

**Sorry this one took so long!  I have most of the next bit written already – it’s where stuff goes wrong, but not really the way he’s thinking.  Should be up probably Wednesday.**


	21. Epilogue: Walder Frey Part II

**Epilogue: Walder Frey Part II**

**A/N: Apologies if Lord Walder’s voice is off. He’s just so narsty that I couldn’t make myself re-watch his stuff enough times to get it right.**

* * *

Walder Frey was _old._ She'd known he was old – the entire plan depended on him being old! – but it was still strange to see him propped up in bed, wrinkly face and white stringy hair, sitting there looking like a harmless, sour old man.

She wished he wasn't wearing nightclothes. Walder Frey was an evil she'd lived with for near two years now and she expected... _more._ He looked pathetic.

She was still deciding what to do. They'd taken her poisoned pin away, which certainly qualified as something _going wrong._ As per the Hound's instructions she was supposed to just keep her mouth shut and fuck Lord Walder, and start again tomorrow thinking of a new plot.

Or, if she couldn't bear to do _that_ , she was supposed to give him her true name and let herself be taken prisoner, and just wait for the Hound to get her out somehow.

She didn't really want to do either of those things.

“Well?” Walder Frey said. “Come closer, girl. These eyes aren't what they used to be. Let's see what you've got under there, hm?”

She hated him so much she was shaking as she reached for her laces. Her innocent-maid face held, but not by much. He complained when she peeled the dress down off her shoulders. “I've got great-granddaughters with bigger tits than that! How old are you?”

“Twelve and a half, my lord. I've just... I've just flowered.” Covering herself up with her hands, the way she'd practiced, was a very good idea: he was making her feel dirty just by looking.

“Well, you'll be maiden, at least,” he laughed in his awful thin old-man voice. “Nice and tight. You wouldn't believe some of the sluts who've tried to pass themselves off. Like I wouldn't know! Now come on: let's see you.”

She walked around naked in front of her friends without a second thought, but now it was almost impossible to make herself let go of the dress and let it fall away. He was beckoning, licking his dry old lips. His vile greedy eyes were on her, all over her, making her skin crawl, peeling her apart. She realized suddenly that those same greedy eyes had watched her mother and Robb-...

She knew at once that there was nothing to do but kill him. Now.

She walked slowly over to the bed, and without a word climbed up on top of him – to his cackling delight. She could smell him. The Hound's breath always stank of wine but this was worse. Old and rotted. She ignored it and leaned in anyway.

She sealed over his mouth with hers, like a kiss, but then sucked the breath from his lungs. That way, he couldn't even scream when she pushed her fingers into his greedy eyes.

He flailed and knocked her hands away pretty fast, but now that it was begun she’d figure a way to do it somehow. She knew where his throat was and even without the stiletto she still had her teeth. When she tried to dive for him, though, he grabbed her neck, clamping down harder than the Hound ever had in practice. She couldn't breathe.

Didn't care, though. She was stuffing his mouth up and her other fingers were finding his eye socket again, and that was more important than breathing.   There was flesh by her mouth and she snapped at it.  Got it between her jaws.   _That's it, wolf girl.  Like that._

* * *

The moon was bright enough to show that the figure coming down the path was too small to be an adult. The wolf girl. Definitely the wolf girl. Her gait was slow and staggering, and her arms were wrapped around her middle.

She could be hurt. Not hurt _badly_ ; she'd walked too far and too well for that, but still. He got up and went to her, refusing to run but then he _was_ running, in all his armor no less. He was completely winded when he reached her.

“Girl,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. His ears were buzzing; he had to squat down or risk falling. “You all right?”

She raised her head and in the moonlight it almost looked like shadows... but he'd seen enough corpses in the moonlight to know better. He touched her cheek and tasted his fingers. Yes. And she was smeared with it forehead to chin. “Arya?”

He reached out to take her by the shoulder and shake her, but it was _skin_ he grabbed, wet and sticky, and he looked her up and down then and discovered that she was naked as her nameday, painted and spattered _everywhere_ with something, and he didn't bother tasting this time because the way she was trembling told him more than enough.

“Come on, girl.” He did shake her then, short and hard. “If you've got wounds I'll dress them. Tell me.”

She whimpered and pulled away. “No. No, I'm-... fine.” The words were hoarse and indistinct. She cleared her throat. “My jaw hurts.”

“He break it for you?” He reached for it to try and tell for himself, but she pulled away even more violently.

“Don't touch me.”

“You're cut,” he said, without touching. “Above your eye.” He could see from the way the moonlight shined off it: her scalp had split open at the hairline, and fresh blood was running down her face. “Where else? There's a lot of blood. Yours or his?”

Her skin had been clammy when he'd touched it, but that might be just from walking through the night wet and naked.

“His. Some at least. Lots.” She grinned, and her mouth was dark and he had a good idea of why. She started to giggle. Clapped a hand over her mouth to stop it-... and then hissed.

Her knuckles glistened with cuts – she'd probably hurt her hand. He sighed. He'd _told_ her not to use her fists. As soon as she was in shape for a lecture she was getting one.

“I killed him,” she said. Her words were so garbled he could hardly understand her. “He fought me but I'm all right. He doesn't hit as hard as you.” She started laughing again – then coughing. “My throat hurts though. From choking. _His_ throat I bit. At first it wasn't... but I got my fingers in and then it... really bled. And once he was dead I was... biting and... ripping pieces off him. I got to bone in some places. If I was a proper wolf I would have just eaten the whole thing.”

 _That,_ perhaps, was what was wrong with her jaw: she’d been gnawing on corpses all night. “Frey meat would make even a proper wolf puke,” he said calmly. “Let's rinse your mouth out and get you cleaned up.”

She backed away and snarled at him like an animal, showing teeth. “I don't want to rinse. I can still taste him.”

He sighed. “Girl...”

“Don't call me girl!” Her voice cracked, uneven. She coughed again and wiped at her bleeding face – with her bloody hand, so it didn’t much help. “I just- I was-...” She turned away and he saw that there were streaks and smudges all down her back, too. What had she done, _rolled_ in it?

“What's the matter?” he said, when she kept shaking. “Are you wounded somewhere?”

She shrugged, shook her head. _Not really,_ that meant.

“Did he rape you?”

Shook her head.

“Scare you?”

Shook her head.

“And you did kill him, didn't you?” Nod. “That's what you wanted. Then what in the seven hells is the problem?”

She sniffled hard and coughed. “It didn't help,” she explained at last, her voice grating and failing. “My mother and my brother are _still dead._ ”

 _Still dead?_ “Well you didn't think they were going to rise up from the grave, did you?” he laughed, before he caught himself. “No- girl-... Stop, damn you, stop it.”

She was marching away, head high. Moving fast but unsteady – walking on an injury, it looked like. He should stop her before she made it worse.

He chased after her and grabbed her arm. (And what he grabbed was wet: not dried blood, but open wounds. Frey must have scratched her deep.) “Girl.”

“Shut up,” she rasped. “I’m not an idiot. You know what I meant.”

“Yes yes all right. We can’t stay here though. Come on.”

“Fuck off.”

She wouldn’t mount her own horse, so he wrapped her in his cloak and hauled her up to ride double on his. She fought a while but soon gave up.

“I want-...” Her voice was only a whisper now; her throat must be a fucking _ruin_. It sounded like she was still talking, but he couldn't make out the words.

He winced. “Your mother?” he guessed.

She nodded hard.

 _Too bad; she's dead. What the fuck do you want me to do about it?_ Wrong answer. He thought of something a little better. “I know. Weep if you like.”

She did weep, wildly. Not for long, though; she became an armful of dead snoring weight in minutes.

* * *

Once it went from full dark to grayish light, he stopped to take a better look at the girl. She was a mess. The cut on her scalp had clotted finally, but her hair was clumpy with blood. There were scratches down her forehead and cheek; Frey had probably clawed for her eyes. Her lip was split – at best; she might even have torn all the way through her mouth at the corner there. He couldn't tell; there was too much caked blood. Her nose was swollen some and had bled too, didn't look crooked at least though. Swelling over one cheekbone.

When he went to unwrap the cloak from her, she woke up instantly and squawked in pain. “It's all right,” he said fast. “It's just me, it's S-...” He tripped up on his own name, realizing suddenly that she never used it. “Your bloody guard dog. You're all right, I think. I just want to make sure. Couldn't tell in the dark.”

She clung to the cloak and whimpered when he tugged – no wonder; it was probably fused to her with blood. “I'm. Fine.” She had to croak the words out one at a time. “Let. Go.”

“This is a bad fucking time to discover your womanly modesty,” he growled at her. “We're going to find water to clean off in, and if you don't want me to check you over you're going to do it yourself.”

She shook her head hard.

“Girl-... All right,” he sighed at last – she looked so beat-up that he didn't have the heart to bully her. “For now just show me the worst one.”

For a moment he feared she wouldn't cooperate, and he'd be doing it by force after all, but at last she shifted inside her cocoon and extended one skinny little arm. He winced at the huge patch of mangled flesh on her forearm. “Bite?” It was bad. There were strips of skin and more dangling off her.

She nodded. “It's- how I- kept him quiet,” she rasped.

A worthy goal, but she couldn't find _anything_ better to stuff his mouth with than her own body parts? But he kept the criticisms to himself for the time being. “That will fester if we don't clean it,” he said instead. “Sit and hold still.”

“It'll fester anyway.” She sounded as if she didn't care, and she didn't fight him as he washed it out. (He didn't like that – the wine and the touching should be horribly painful.) “You should sear it,” she whispered dully. “I know you won't though.”

He ignored that and just wrapped bandages. “That'll hold you til we get home to the maesters.”

“I'm not going home,” she said.

“Why the fuck not?”

“I can't go back to Sansa right now.” She sucked at nothing and made a face. “I've still got bits of Walder Frey in my teeth.”

He held the wine out to her. “Rinse?”

“I don't want to rinse. Shut up and leave me alone.”

“All right.”

* * *

“Want to wash today?”

“No.”

“Want some clothes?”

“No.”

“How's the arm?”

“Fine.”

“Hand?”

“Fine.”

“Today I'm doing your damn face. You don't want to look like me. And _I_ don't want you to look like me; I'm the one has to look at you. Sit down.”

…

“Are you going to ask how bad it is?”

...

“Well in case you're interested: it could be worse. But this one here will scar. This as well, probably. And that half a tooth won't grow back. Does this hurt?”

“No.”

“That's good at least. Maybe not broken.”

“It doesn't matter.”

* * *

**TBC.**

**So, it looks like their patented Serial Murder As Grief Counseling strategy might not be as effective as they'd hoped.  Who knew?!**

Also, I am still dying of sadness after the episode this week.  Waaaaaaah!!  Although he did get an amazing fight scene.  Like damn.

 

 


	22. Epilogue: Walder Frey Part III

**Epilogue: Walder Frey Part III**

* * *

For days, her condition didn't change. (Other than she developed a fever, but not much of one; the bitch was too stubborn even to get sick.). She huddled in his cloak and stared listlessly and barely ate. Eventually he had to try something else.

“Are you ready to go home yet?” he said one evening.

She looked up at him with dull surprise for breaking the silence; usually he started the day off with the catechism about whether she was willing to wash yet, and otherwise kept quiet. She shook her head.

“Then, I want to go south a bit. I've got a name of my own to cross off.”

She frowned. “I thought-...” She coughed. No surprise there, given how long it had been since she'd last tried to speak. He handed her water and she drank. “I thought you didn't keep a list,” she said when she could. “I thought that as soon as people offended you, you ended them right there.”

“I do now. But this one...” He shrugged. “It's an old grudge – almost thirty years.”

He watched her frown, calculating the numbers. Then her brows arched. “Your brother's dead,” she said – as if he'd forgotten! “Your father too. Who else...?”

“There was a-...Well, nearest thing we had to a maester.”

She nodded, listening.

“He did a shit job – as you can see.” He shrugged. “And I don't appreciate that he gave me fuck-all for the pain, just because I'd stopped crying. Hurt too much to talk, so I couldn't set him straight.”

“So why'd you stop crying?”

“Because-.” He heaved a sigh: the girl was fucking pitiless. “At first I thought I was going to die, or be-... just a skull or something. I'd felt the flesh come off.” He found himself rubbing at it, and stopped. He'd never told this to anyone – hardly ever let himself _think_ about it, even – but she was listening and it was the first sign of life he'd seen from her in a while, so he went on. He could take it. After thirty years it would be damn near pathetic if he couldn't. “That scared me, and I cried. But once he told me I was going to be fine I wasn't afraid anymore.”

She nodded at him to go on.

“He told me I'd be fine,” he repeated. “So I kept my mouth shut and sat in my room and used his bloody ointments, and he said I'd be _fine._ I was even-...” He shook his head. “I was even working on forgiving Gregor. Since no harm done, right? I was going to be fine.”

Her voice went above a whisper now, but it was still rough and cracking. “And then you saw yourself.”

He nodded. “After a couple of miserable fucking weeks alone in my room, lying there with my face-...” He realized he'd never tried to put words to the feel of it before. Didn't want to try. “...Burned... the bandages came off. Hurt like fuck. But I didn't mind; the useless bastard was telling me I'd healed _well._ Preaching to me about the fucking gods and their fucking _mercy_. But then I saw a mirror. I couldn't stop screaming.”

And crying. The screaming had cracked it open again in places and tears got in, stinging and itching and drawing even more tears. He remembered the doorway darkening. Turning to face it. “Gregor saw me and he didn't blink. I knew then he'd known what he was doing – and he didn't care. He was bigger than me and he didn't give two shits about doing _this_ and I was thinking: fuck the gods and fuck Gregor; there's no _mercy_ there.” He took a deep breath: there. He'd never tried to string it together into a narrative before, and it had come out all disjointed and strange but at least it was out.

The girl was nodding – she'd got enough to have a picture at least. “Your maester-... healer, whatever he was,” she croaked. “He knew who did it?”

He nodded. _And he let me try to forgive him. Encouraged me even._ But that he actually _couldn't_ say; he was too embarrassed to admit it. Nobody played the Hound for a fool. “He knew. But then my father told him what the story was going to be, and he said all right.”

“Let's look for him.” She got up and came over, and without a word sat on his lap and curled against his chest. When he put an arm around her – because what else was he going to do? – she kept talking as if it was perfectly natural. “Is that why you don't like maesters?”

He blinked. Somehow the thought had never occurred to him. “Might be,” he said. “Likely, I guess.”

They sat in silence a while. Then she said: “Can I sleep here?”

He heaved a sigh and shifted underneath her. “Do you have to? Fucking hells, girl. You smell of rotting corpse.”

She ignored the words. “Thanks.” After a bit she added: “And I'm sorry. I know I'm no fun to travel with like this. I'll clean off tomorrow. And I'll... try to get better.”

He didn't invite her to take her time; _he_ was taking thirty years and counting and he didn't think he had the patience to put up with a woman weeping for that long. “If you want to sleep,” he snarled instead, “Just shut up and get on with it.”

* * *

The next day they found a stream to wash in. She asked him to turn his back – something she'd never done before – but then fussed when he made to step away and see to the horses.

“No: stay here,” she ordered. Somehow, she managed to sound bossy even though her voice was still almost too hoarse to use. “Just, don't look at me.”

That didn't sound good. He realized he hadn't had a good look at her since the night of her disastrous little mission, and it had been dark then – he could well have missed some sort of ugly mutilation. “What happened to _I like how the Dornishmen aren't so silly about skin?_ ” he said. “Frey mark you up or something?” He tried to sound like it didn't matter. It didn't, really; nobody was ever going to court her for her beauty anyway.

“What?” She said it sharp enough to make herself cough. “Oh – no no, it's not that. It's nothing. You can... You can look.”

When he turned she was crouched over at the water’s edge, but with a visible surge of determination she stood up, head raised and fists clenched by her sides. They stood facing off for a moment... and then whatever had been bothering her evaporated all at once: she relaxed, stopped frowning, and struck a pose. “See?”

He gave her a quick once-over. “Mm. Turn.” The back was the same. “You look like shit,” he said, “But I’d say none of the wounds look serious. Except that thing on your arm.”

She shrugged and went back to washing. “It's still all ugly, you know. We really are going to have to burn it.” Then she let out a short gravelly laugh. “Or we could let your maester treat it, before we kill him. Though if _that's_ his best work,” she said, nodding in his direction, “Maybe I'll just take my chances and sew it up myself.”

He resisted the urge to turn away or bring his hand up to cover. “Glad to see you've recovered your sunny fucking disposition,” he growled. “I've had about all the crying I can take.”

She took that a lot harder than he'd expected. “Maybe you shouldn't choose a _little girl_ as your travel companion then,” she spat furiously. Washing with more energy – too much. “But I guess you don't have a choice, seeing as no normal people would have you.”

She was scrubbing herself so roughly she was like to tear cuts open again. Spoiling for a fight.

Might as well draw the poison for her; she'd done no less for him when his mood was sour.  “Normal?” he laughed. “The fuck would _you_ know about normal?”

“I _could_ be normal! I was. Until people like _you_ came and fucked up my whole life. You think I've forgotten who stood with Joffrey while he _cut off my father's head_?”

Harsh and unexpected enough to freeze him for a second. _Just_ a second... but it was enough: she smelled blood. She left the water and came over to him. “You think I've forgotten whose boots you were licking before mine?” she went on. “You're _Joffrey's_ _dog_ and you always will be, and the only reason I put up with you at all is right now I need you. But just wait. _You're still on my list._ ”

He arched eyebrows. “ _That's_ normal?” he huffed – with a laugh, to get even more of a rise. “Look at the little wolf bitch, gnawing at a-”

“ _Sansa's_ normal,” she hissed, low and mean and gleeful. “And she can't stand to be in the same room with you.”

That one, he’d expected.

“She never will, you know,” Arya pressed on. “No matter what you do, you aren't good enough for her and you never will be. She doesn't like the way you look or the way you act or the way you _are,_ and you can avenge her and protect her until the day you _die_ but she'll never want anything to do with you.”

“ _You_ aren't good enough for the little bird either, wolf girl. For the same fucking reasons.” Seven hells, he hadn't meant to _actually_ fight back. Couldn't help himself, though; it seemed she'd touched a nerve.

“Fuck you.” She was cold and quiet. “I should have let Gregor have you.”

Gregor. He’d expected that too; she was holding nothing back today.

“I should have.  You know what I would have done if he'd won that fight?”

 _Gotten fucked bloody and then drowned in a latrine._ “No,” he snarled. “Why don't you tell me.”

“Nothing,” she said. “I'd have done absolutely _nothing_ different. I'd have sat drinking with _him_ while _you_ bled out. Crossed a name off my list. Wouldn't matter which, you’re both the same. Though not _exactly_ the same I guess, because you know what we would have done different, Gregor and I, is we would've built a-.”

She stopped herself.  (He was a little touched.).   She shoved him instead, then turned and stomped away.

He gave her a moment before following, and stopped a few paces back. “You done, then?”

She nodded. He heard a gasp that might be a sucked-back sob and took a step closer... then hesitated. _Most_ crying children would want to be comforted . But this wolf child...?

She nodded again.

So he came up close behind her. Wasn't really sure what to _do_ with her, though. He reached over her shoulder to spread a hand out on her chest, rubbing firmly up and down her breastbone, gentling her like a horse. “All right, girl,” he murmured. “All right.” It seemed to work; she bowed her head and cried quietly and didn't fight anymore.

* * *

When she finally calmed down, the first thing she did was push away from the Hound because she didn't need to be treated like a _little girl._ Cleaning her wounds up was all right; warriors did that for each other; she'd done the same for _him_ plenty of times.  But petting her while she cried was too much.  He must be feeling sorry for her.

“I'm fine now,” she insisted.  She looked down at herself. Even washed, she did look like shit. “I guess I'll get dressed though. Do you have a comb?”

“What the fuck would I do with a comb?” He went and dug her clothes out. “Here. About bloody time.”

It was, really.  It felt good to be dressed again – in real clothes instead of his disgusting cloak, or that awful peasant dress.

“And here's your bloody _needle_.”  Maybe she shouldn't have been letting the Hound _cuddle_ her so much lately, because when he passed her her sword belt, even sneering at it a little, she sensed... warmth.

“Stop it,” she said. “Stop being so nice. You're no good to me if you turn _nice_.”

Instantly the look he gave her was blank and grim as ever. “Don't worry, wolf girl. We'll be riding through Lannister country towards someone I've got business with. There won't be any _nice_ where we're going.”

* * *

**TBC.**

**When you’re feeling down after a murder, what’s one way to cheer yourself up? I know! Another murder!**

**Smh. These two…**

 


	23. Epilogue: Where the Heart Is

** Epilogue:  Where the Heart Is **

**A/N:  Heads-up: I think this one ends on a good stopping point, so I’m probably done after this.**

* * *

After too many nights outdoors they passed an inn at a crossroads, but the Hound said it looked too crowded and wouldn't let them stop.  In fact, he made them veer off onto a less traveled path, seeing as they were getting into squarely Lannister territory and you never knew who you might meet there.  Arya sulked for a mile, until they found a house.  “Here,” the Hound said, and dismounted.

She didn't like that he hadn't consulted her.  Who did he think he was, making all the decisions?  She wasn't some stupid little girl who would just follow him wherever he led.

“Who says they'll even put us up?” she said.

“This.”  He jangled the bag of coin at his hip – at least they weren’t traveling poor.  “Or this.”  He nudged his sword.

She followed him, still grouchy, as he banged on the door and then shouldered it open.

There was a... _boy_ inside.  She wouldn't even call him a man.  Not much older than Gendry had been, probably, trying to look tough but by now Arya knew fear when she saw it.  There was a girl there, too, cowering in the kitchen.

The Hound shook his silver.  “Got room for a couple of travelers tonight?  Yes you do,” he added, when the boy only stared.  He went to the table and sat.  “Girl.  Get over here.”

When Arya came he tugged on her shoulder so she would bend to listen.  “Sit close and pretend you're my woman,” he breathed.  “And make nice to them.”

“Why?”

His grip became painful.  “When's the last time it was a good idea to question my orders?”

She shrugged free.  “You don't _give_ me orders, _dog,_ ” she hissed... but quietly, so the boy wouldn't hear.  Then she kissed the Hound on the cheek and sat down next to him, leaning against him with a sigh of contentment.  “Really nice to have a rest,” she said, loud, smiling at the boy.  “We've been on the road a long time.”

The Hound put an arm around her, gathering her closer.  “Aye.  Bring us food,” he growled over her head.  “We'll pay you for it.”

The boy mumbled some _yes ser_ 's and got busy.

“Why do I have to be nice to them?” Arya said once he was out of earshot.

“You saw how they were looking at us – at me?”

“They're scared.  You think they know who you are?”

He laughed – not a happy sound.  “No, I know _that_ look.  Them, they're just...”  He shrugged.  “Looks like people have come in to take more than dinner and a bed.  I'm not in the mood for a scene tonight – don't need some farm boy throwing boiling soup at me and charging me with his grandfather's dagger.”

Arya giggled – _she_ might be in the mood to see something like that.  It would serve him right for being so bossy and difficult. 

The boy and girl fed them, and retreated up to the attic.  Arya could hear noises coming down – gurgling noises, and squeals.  “There's a baby up there!”

“Aye.  They'll bring it down, though.  I'm not sleeping in a bed with a fucking baby.”

They ate in silence a while.  The baby was still fussing.  “What do you think happened to their parents?” Arya asked.  “Or whoever's house this was?”

He finished his drink and poured another.  “Let's take a fucking guess.”

* * *

The farm girl still cowered behind her whatever-he-was (her brother?  Her man?  Hard to tell), but they'd relaxed enough that Sandor felt safe getting drunk: nobody would be trying to kill him in his sleep.  Arya was helpful, chatting to them brightly and leaning against him as if everything were _normal._

She did a pretty good impression of normal when she wanted to.  _He_ was much worse at it, but he was able at least to follow the cues she gave him, and he knew that with a girl on his arm his silence would look much less dangerous.

When the food was done he followed her up the attic steps with a guiding hand on her back...

...And as soon as they had privacy she threw it off.  “ _There,_ ” she sassed, in almost a whisper so they wouldn't be overheard.  “Happy?  They think I like you – the idiots.”

It was good to see her tease again; she'd been too quiet of late.  “Think I can't beat you silently?” he whispered back.  Though, the power of the threat was somewhat lost when he had to ask her help with his armor; he'd drunk too much to manage it himself.

One she'd gotten him sorted out she took her boots and belt off and fell in.  “Bed is the one thing I miss about the Eyrie.”

It was good to lie beside her, too: in recent nights she'd either huddled up alone at a distance, or clung to him far too close.  He closed his eyes and enjoyed the gentle spinning of the room.  “Shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

* * *

They made it almost the whole way without incident.  One pair of dumb cunts recognized Sandor and mentioned a bounty.  “Old news,” he said, and opened the man's belly for him.  The other squealed _no_ and _no harm_ , which made Sandor laugh.

“It's not like that!  It's not,” the poor fuck babbled, going down to his knees.  “Lord Tyrion only wants to _talk_ to you!  The reward's for finding you, not for doing you any harm, he's specifically asked for you alive and whole.  He-”

_Then,_ Sandor took his head off.  “Too late for that,” he said to the corpse, and kicked it out of the way.

Then, a sigh from behind him.  The wolf girl.   _Fuck._ It occurred to him, too late, that it might be best to avoid brutalities in front of her until she was feeling a little stronger.  He turned to see that she was all right.

She seemed to be.  All she said was: “I _still_ don't know how to do that.”

He shrugged.  “Get bigger, is how.  You'll try in another year.”

“What does the Imp want with you, anyway?”

Shrugged again. “Whatever it is he can go bugger himself with it.  I'm not going back to King's Landing, not for him or anybody else.”

“You'd go for me.”

“The fuck I would.”

“Do you think it's about Sansa?”

He blinked.  He didn't know.  He carefully _never_ thought about the fact that the Imp was actually Sansa's husband.  That the Imp had lived with Sansa as man and wife.  Littlefinger was insisting that the girl was still virgin – and probably tried to believe it, because the alternative was just too disgusting – but Sandor knew better.  The little bird was too pious and dutiful to have refused the man his rights.

He heard himself say:  “I'd like to burn him.”

Arya bit her lip.  “Because of Sansa?  She says he was all right to her.”

“Because of the Blackwater.”  _That too._   “It was his bloody idea.”

“I know.  I heard.  Wildfire.   You must have hated it.”  (She was matter-of-fact, at least.  He listened for pity and didn’t hear any.)  “Did you actually fight?”

“Aye.  For a while.”  He shook his head.  “I don't want to talk about the fucking Blackwater.”

“Fine.”

“Did-.”  He stopped.   _Did your sister tell you anything?_   He wasn't going to ask it.  He'd rather just forget.

She looked over at him, but a dark look was enough to keep her quiet.  Thank the gods.

* * *

Day by day he got gruffer and more moody.  Arya was glad; she was much less apt to cry around him if he was growling and snarling all the time.

One morning he woke her up with a kick.  “What?  What was that for!” she complained.

He said:  “Get up.  We're almost there.”

_Oh of course.  That's a fine reason to kick me._   She was nasty right back to him, and by the time they found the hut they were looking for they were both in a foul mood.

“Hey!  Fucking come out!” The Hound shouted and didn't even get off his horse. 

It was no maester who came out, but an old woman.

“I'm looking for your husband,” he said down to her, cold and impatient.  “Where the fuck's your husband?”

“I- my-?  Beg pardon, ser, but what do you want with my husband?  Who are you?”

He reached up and brushed his hair back off his face – the first time Arya had ever seen him do that.  “ _Look._ You live in the shadow of Clegane Keep,” he growled.  “Take a good look at my face.  Who the fuck do you _think_ I am?”

The woman swayed, then went to her knees right there in the mud.  “P-please, ser,” she was  stammering.  “I didn't-, I don't-...”

Arya could _feel_ the Hound's anger, and decided it was time to solve things herself.  “Get up,” she snapped, loud and annoyed.  She swung down off her horse.  “He's not Gregor, for fuck’s sake.  Now get up, and tell us where your husband is.”

“My-...”  She started struggling to her feet.  “What do you want with my husband?”

Arya had to help her, she was _that_ old.  (She even _smelled_ old, like Walder Frey.  Arya stepped away from her as soon as possible.).  “Your husband's the healer around here, isn't he?”  She waved her bandaged forearm.  “Look: we need a healer.  See?  Bring us to your husband.”

“He's dead, little lady.  Been dead two years now.  But I can help you, if you like.  I tend people myself, now.”

Arya looked over her shoulder, but the Hound didn't seem to be paying attention.  Disappointed, probably, that he wouldn't get to kill the man himself.

“Sure.  Thank you.”  She gave her best girl-smile to the old woman and followed her into the house.

The Hound didn't come in for another twenty minutes.  By then Arya was sitting at the table gritting her teeth as the woman cut away flesh that was no good and pressed cloths soaked in burning-hot _something_ to the rest.   The woman's hands were surprisingly strong and sure.  (Surer than Walder Frey's; his had twitched and trembled.  Arya tried not to remember them.)

The Hound looked down at the mess.  “Doing all right, is she?” he said evenly.  Arya wasn't sure who he was asking, but the woman nodded enthusiastically and promised that the wound would _heal well._

Arya felt him tense, and she started laughing.  _Wrong answer,_ she wanted to tell the old woman.

“What is it, dear?” the woman said, her hands suddenly a little unsteady.  Hm.  The Hound was making her nervous.

Arya kept her tone empty and casual.  “Oh, nothing.  So… did you know the Clegane boys when they were little?”

The old woman's eyes darted up to him for just a moment.  “Ah, we-... everyone knew who they were.  Living in the shadow of the Keep and all, like Ser said.”

“He doesn't like you to call him _ser.”_

She finished wrapping the wound – definitely shaking now – and fumbled around on the table.  “Here: take this with you.”

Arya ignored the invitation to leave.  “Your husband treated his burns, you know.”

The woman ignored her right back.  “Soak the bandages in this until the wound closes, and it won't putrefy any more.”

“Thank you,” Arya said, but made no move to get up.  “Now I _said_ : did you know your husband's the one who treated Sandor's burns?”

“Yes, I- I did know that,” she said uncomfortably.  “It was-... a terrible accident.  I'm so sorry it didn't heal any prettier, but… will of the gods, I guess….”

“Not an accident,” the Hound rasped.

The woman wrung her hands and stammered some words Arya paid no attention to.  They didn't amount to anything anyway.  “You knew,” she accused quietly.  “You knew Gregor did it.”

“I- I um...”

“You don't have any family, do you?” Arya demanded suddenly.  It seemed not; the hut reeked of loneliness, but it was best to make sure.

The old woman shook her head, frowning, confused.

“Thank you for the medicine.”  Arya stood up and gathered it off the table.  She turned and said to the Hound:  “I'm not sure I'd take somebody's mother for that, but there'd be no one who misses _her_.”  She couldn't read his face.  “I'm going to go get the horses ready.”

She went out and got the horses ready, humming and making plenty of noise so that she couldn't hear whatever happened in the hut.  It was a while before the Hound came out, and when he did he didn't say anything.  She didn't ask him.

“Are you ready to go home, girl?” he asked.

_Home._ She thought it over.  Sansa.  Bed and baths and the practice yard.  The Hound.

“All right,” she said.  “But can we chop up some Lannister men on the way?”

* * *

**The End!**

**Actually the end this time!**

(Except: A number of people asked in comments whether these two were going to have a romantic/sexual relationship down the line.  The answer to that is: when Creepy Uncle Petyr eventually decides to marry Arya off for some political purpose, who knows what she’ll do?!  But I feel like that little incident isn’t really a part of the revenge/murder roadtrip tale, so it doesn’t go here.  If you’re interested, tune in in a couple of days and it may be up as a standalone.)

**It’s been a hell of a trip.  Thanks for coming along, and thanks-x-1000 to people who wrote comments.  I really appreciate the feedback!**


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